Fifteen Minutes to Midnight
by unilocular
Summary: Tim and Tony fight like brothers. They squabble like children. But when one of them takes a bullet, they find out just how deep their friendship runs. Narrated by Tony. Already complete, one chapter per day.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: If you recognize it, I don't own it. This is purely meant for my own enjoyment and entertainment. I make no money from my work.  
**

 **Title:** Fifteen Minutes to Midnight  
 **Summary:** In the midst of a case, Tim and Tony are at each others' throats...like usual. But when a routine interview takes a potentially deadly turn, they both learn the true meaning of friendship.  
 **Rating** : Strong Teen  
 **Spoilers/Warnings:** General spoilers up to 12x10: House Rules. General violence, whump, bad language, and lots of movie references.

 **Acknowledgements:** **This story was written for the Big Bang over on LJ.** **It takes a village to participate in one of those challenges. Many thanks to hinky_hippo for taking my story and creating art that captures the vey heart and soul of the story. And I can't thank naemi enough for getting this story beta'd in four days. I hope you both know how much your time meant to me. And last, but not least, thank you to solariana for running the Big Bang again this year.**

 **Author's Note:** _This story originally started as an exercise in voice work for my original fiction. So it's a little different that it's written in the first person with Tony as the narrator. It is complete at 9 chapters with one epilogue. I'll be posting one chapter per day until it's done._

 _The story is set in season 12, pre-House Rules (mid-to-end of November)._

 _Hope you enjoy it. As always, all feedback (good or bad) is welcome. But please keep it constructive._

 ** _-oooooooo-ooooooooo-ooooooooo-_**

When I'm stuck in observation, interrogations just aren't exciting.

Here, the harsh lights make the stainless steel furniture and dismal grey walls of the interrogation room look particularly cold. Everything is so different when you're in there, in the middle of the action with fingers riffling through a file and questions flying rapid-fire.

There is no high for me like getting a confession. It might even be better than that time I threw the winning Hail Mary pass with only seconds to go in the Orange Bowl. Now, that was a long time ago.

I should be in there—not a Bowl game, but interrogation. But I'm banished to observation, rocking on the balls of my feet to prevent myself from exploding due all this pent-up energy and an accidental caffeine overdose. G-d, I almost forgot how much I hate sitting on the bench, standing on the sidelines… _observing_.

On the other side of the glass, my boss, the great Leroy Jethro Gibbs, shifts back in his chair to study our suspect. It doesn't take much to picture his face: that one he makes when he stares down a dirtbag until they're ready to confess every crime they've committed since third grade.

Shake, rattle, so they'll roll.

That's I always called it, but I never told Gibbs. He'd probably head-slap into the next century if he ever found out. Little things like that are best kept a secret. I keep a lot of them. Secrets, that is. Like how I call the diner to let them know to get his hourly cup of coffee ready, text Abby when he's on the move, and I keep adding to my list of impromptu movie titles for his interrogation kung-fu.

Whatever it takes to keep our fearless leader placid and docile. Like that could ever happen.

To keep myself entertained during the stare-down, I drum my fingers against the wall.

Our suspect's head snaps up and Gibbs swivels to glare at me through the mirror. Christ, how the hell did they even hear that?

As soon as my eyes land on Charlene Moser, I understand why my boss chucked me into observation without a second thought. The depressing colors of the walls and the sallow lighting do little to hide her natural beauty…once you get past the blood caked in her hair and her tear stained cheeks. She is attractive in that Mrs. Robinson kind of way–young enough to still be considered pretty, tan, and nothing but leg.

Less than five hours ago, Metro police picked her outside of a busy Starbucks, wearing blood-soaked, nightclub clothes. If dog tags belonging to our most recent victim weren't found in her pocket, she might still be wasting away in Metro's lock-up while we ripped Washington apart for our killer. The evidence was more than enough to earn her a one-way ticket to the interrogation room and the two–going on three—hour conversation with Gibbs.

A single tear sneaks down her cheek, but she doesn't sweep it away.

"I killed him, Agent Gibbs." Her voice so quiet that I adjust the recorder on the camera, so it'll be admissible in court.

"Tell me what happened," Gibbs says.

"I killed that man," she repeats, slightly more convincing this time. "Isn't that enough?"

After the grisly crime scene we cleared and a particularly brutal all-nighter, I would love to close our case with a nice and neat confession. Then after a few hours to finalize prisoner booking and my report, I'd be in bed before the afternoon replay of Dr. Phil even comes on.

But with Gibbs, nothing is ever that easy.

Since he hasn't come to get me yet, I assume that fabled gut of his is already churning and it sets mine off too. Maybe it's the way she averts her eyes or how she covers the crime scene photos with her hands. Perhaps my boss even fell into the same trap he thought I would: a beautiful and vulnerable woman like Charlene Moser couldn't be responsible for our gruesome murder.

He tilts his head. "Tell me how you knew Petty Officer Marshall Lake."

Her eyes darken. "He spent the night harassing me at a bar. So I decided to teach him a lesson."

"And that involved slitting his throat?"

Her face goes stark-white. "Y-y-y-yes."

"Okay. Where did you meet him?"

"Doc Holliday's."

"Isn't that in Downtown?" When she nods, he continues: "So why did you two go back to Rock Creek Park? Seems like it was out of the way."

More tears find their way down her cheeks as she bites her lower lip. She stares directly at the one-way mirror and if I didn't know better, I would swear our eyes meet. Gibbs moves into her line of sight and she drops her gaze to her hands.

"He kept talking about how he wanted to hook up in the woods. Thought it would be hot. So I…" she makes a disgusted face, "…obliged."

"You and Lake had – "

"No! We never had sex!" When her eyes flick back to Gibbs, they burn with rage. "I would never, ever do that. Not with that man."

"Why not?"

She licks her lips, huffs. "Because he was a piece of trash."

"And that's why you lured him into the woods and murdered him?"

When a tiny moan escapes her lips, she buries her face in her hands. As if sensing an opportunity, Gibbs holds up what should be the most gruesome crime scene photo. I think it might be the one of the petty officer's bloodless face and the gash on his neck where someone tried to decapitate him. But they were all pretty horrific; the scene was enough to send Ellie into the woods to revisit her midnight snack.

"Look at him, Charlene," Gibbs says, jabbing his finger at the picture. "You look at him and you tell me why. I think he did a helluva a lot more than hit on you."

At this point in the interrogation, the proudest suspects would be studying their work as though it were art worthy of a gallery, while the most remorseful would be begging for a plea deal.

Charlene covers the picture with her hands as the tears stream down her cheeks. Gibbs pushes another one towards her.

"Tell me," he says, "what he did to deserve this."

The sound of her strident breathing echoes through the room. She glances back through the mirror again as though to beg for my help, but I learned a long time ago that no suspect is worth breaking rule 22. When Gibbs leans in closer, I turn up the microphone again. He has this annoying habit of whispering into the suspect's ears and it drives the lawyers crazy.

"I don't think you killed him. I think you're protecting someone and…" he pulls another photo over and I recognize the close-up of the coup de grace "…I want to know why."

Her face goes an unsightly shade of green like she's about to vomit all over the photos and Gibbs. But then, she pushes the pictures away. He leans back in his chair and her shoulders hitch in a sigh of relief. While he makes a few notations on his notepad, she doesn't even glance at him.

"Are you willing to throw away the rest of your life?" he asks.

Her lips move as though she's desperate to say something, but she swallows hard.

"I killed him," she says, more convincingly than before.

"Tell me what happened."

"Last night, I told him we'd hook up if we went to Rock Creek Park. I pretended to lose a contact lens and while he was on the ground, I snuck up behind him. Then I…then I…I…killed him."

"You slit his throat."

Her head bobs like a broken wind-up toy. "Y-y-yes."

After her confession, she buries her face into her hands and sobs. Gibbs keeps writing down what she said, leaving me to wonder what the hell he's doing. It's painfully obvious that she didn't kill Marshall Lake and he isn't the kind of cop to deliver a signed confession and let the prosecutors decide what to do when the evidence doesn't match up. Pressing my lips together, I make a face.

Come on, boss, what's our play? Give me a hint.

When she has nothing left, she glances up with swollen and red-rimmed eyes.

"Okay, Charlene." His voice is soft and comforting, the one reserved for victims. "I need you to write the confession in your own words."

When he passes her a notepad and pen, her expression turns even more heartbreaking. Her entire body trembles when she picks up the pen with her left hand.

Ah, I knew it. Marshall Lake was almost decapitated by a righty.

At that moment, Gibbs snatches the pen away and darts out of interrogation, but I beat him into the hallway. He doesn't even slow down and I jog to catch up.

"What are you thinking, boss?" I ask. "Witness or accomplice?"

He half-shrugs. "Not sure yet."

I nod. "She was at the scene. It's just a matter of time before Abby matches the blood on her clothes to Lake's. My money's on accomplice and I bet she knows exactly who killed him."

"We'll see, DiNozzo."

I take it that to mean we just have a little bit more work to do before we prove my theory. Gibbs and I make the rest of the trip in silence. As soon as we hit the bullpen, I dive behind my desk and fire up my computer. I want to be home before the eleven o'clock news.

Ellie Bishop and Tim McGee, are right where we left them: hard at work. Both of them have the bags stretching under their eyes and the exhausted expressions that come only from a long night spent hunched over a computer screen. Empty coffee cups line their desks like badges of honor. Tim is in the lead with four to Ellie's three.

When I find a full one by my monitor, I think it might be a peace offering from Tim until I notice the goofy smiley face scribbled in purple pen. So Ellie strikes again. The drink went cold a long time ago, but I drink it anyway because she always gets my order right: three sugars, three Splendas – hey, I'm on a diet after all – and enough milk to turn it white.

Gibbs turns to face us. "Somebody tell me something."

My co-workers share a grim look before Tim climbs to his feet with remote in hand. After a couple of clicks, he brings up pictures of Marshall Lake and Charlene Moser side-by-side.

"We haven't been able to find a connection between these two yet, Boss. I went through e-mail and financials for a possible correlation while Bishop looked into service and school records. There's nothing to indicate that their paths ever crossed, let alone that they knew each other. Bishop and I – "

"Tell me what we do know, McGee."

After a clipped nod, Tim highlights the suspect on the screen. "Charlene Moser, age 38. Born and raised in Fredericksburg, Maryland. She attended the New School in New York City for Public Relations, but she hasn't held a job since she got married six years ago. The husband is a SEAL, currently deployed in Iraq on a classified mission. Together, they own a farm several miles outside of Front Royal, Virginia."

Ellie's face lights up. "Isn't that near Shenandoah National Park?" Tim half-nods. "That's supposed to be beautiful this time of – "

"And Lake?" Gibbs interrupts.

Her expression deflates when Tim tosses her the remote. Two clicks change the screen to a picture of our victim in his dress whites. His smile is almost as broad as his shoulders.

"Petty Officer Third Class Marshall Lake, 32, was an E-4," she says. "He was stationed out of Norfolk where he worked as an engineman on the _USS Pawtucket_." Her brow knits in confusion. "I didn't know they still had enginemen…"

I can't help chuckling. "Who did you think kept the engine going, Bish? Gremlins?"

Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Tim trying his best not to laugh. Gibbs' death glare threatens to melt me into a puddle of goo, but it's too late, I'm already on a roll.

"Do you know what happened to them when they get wet or eat after midnight, Bish?" When Gibbs' glare turns even more lethal, I fight the urge to ask if he ate after midnight. Instead, I just say: "Thanks, boss. Shutting up now."

After straightening my tie, I focus my attention on my e-mail. Something from our forensic scientist, Abby Scuito, catches my attention. I skim her newest findings.

Gibbs sets his sights back on Tim. "Got anything on Lake, McGee?"

"He has a couple of disciplinary incidents on his record, but they're sealed. So I'm waiting for the office to respond to my formal request. The director recommended I stick to more legal channels, for now." He huffs as though that takes far too much time. "If it doesn't work, I'll take care of it."

Gibbs grinds his teeth when I jump to my feet. I motion to Ellie, but she just stares at me.

"Abby just sent me something, boss." After Ellie finally throws me the remote, I bring up the same crime scene photos Gibbs showed to Charlene. Gagging, Ellie looks away. "As we already know, the killer used a standard combat knife to deliver the coup de grace. According to Ducky's report, the point of entry was just under the right ear and ended just under the left ear. One clean wound with no hesitation. So that means?"

Ellie's expression turns panicked as Tim replies, "The killer used their right hand."

"Score one for you, McObservant." The glare Tim shoots me extinguishes my grin. "We already know Charlene Moser is left-handed, so she likely isn't the killer. But…"

I pause for effect, almost begging the team to ask. Across the bullpen, Gibbs rubs his palm as though his hand is itching for a head slap. I sigh quietly. Why is everyone always so tense in these moments when we should be trying to lighten the mood? They always act like someone just died. Oh yeah…

"Get on with it, DiNozzo," Gibbs growls.

I sigh again. "Abby's report shows the blood on Charlene Moser's clothes match the victim's, but her fingerprints aren't on the murder weapon. There was a speck of blood on the victim's shirt that doesn't match Charlene's type. Abby is – " I glance back at her e-mail and try to make sense of scientific mumbo-jumbo that I barely understand " – doing something to track the sample, but she says it's going to take time. You, uh, might want to go talk to her, boss. Reading her e-mail is like trying to make sense out of _The Matrix Reloaded."_

Gibbs makes a face. "Tell her I'm on my way. Then go find out why the hell Charlene Moser's lying."

With that, I shoot Abby a quick e-mail to warn her about our boss' impending visit. Hopefully, I'll give her enough time to finish up whatever strange activity she planned for today. Last time I visited her, she was re-enacting Pompeii with paperclip people and a grade school volcano under the guise of 'research.' I enjoyed watching her rendition until I realized she mixed some sort of acid into the lava that melted the paperclip people into a puddle of grey goop. The janitor still haven't managed to scrub their guts off the floor.

When I scramble for my gear, Gibbs turns back to the rest of the team. Tim busies himself with computer work while Ellie stands with her hand on her desk drawer, every muscle in her body is poised and ready for action. Our eyes meet and she can't hold back the grin any longer.

 _Road trip,_ she mouths.

"Take McGee with you," Gibbs orders.

Tim's nose wrinkles. "But boss – "

"It wasn't a request."

Without any further protest, Tim pulls his desk drawers open. He yanks his back-pack free and then, he stuffs a laptop into it. After he clips his holster to his belt, he pockets his badge.

Across the bullpen, Ellie sinks sullenly into her chair, but all I have to offer is a sympathetic shrug. Maybe we'll let her do the dinner run when we get back so she gets a chance to see the sun today.

"We'll need a warrant," I say.

Ellie half-nods. "I'll text you as soon as I have it."

Then Tim darts out of the bullpen with me and Gibbs right behind him. He makes a beeline for the stairs without bothering to let me catch up.

As soon as he's out of earshot, Gibbs grabs my arm and drags me into the elevator. The doors barely close before he hits the emergency stop button. Suddenly, the car lurches and the lights dip dangerously dark. Gibbs turns to me. The hollows of his face are lighted making him part man, part monster.

"What's going on between you and McGee?" he growls.

I try not to cower under his glare. "It's a long story, boss."

"Fix it."


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer :** I own nothing, but the typos.

 **Warnings : Rated T for language.**

 **Author's Note :** _Thanks so much to everyone who's read, favorited, and followed so far. And extra thanks to everyone who left a review. I'm glad to hear that I'm heading in the right direction._ **  
**

 _Enjoy._

 ** _-oooooooo-ooooooooo-ooooooooo-_**

According to the GPS, the trip to Fort Royal should take a little under an hour and a half. With Tim behind the wheel of the Charger, it'll probably end up taking well over two.

I lean back against the headrest to stare out the window. The foothills of Virginia stretch towards the horizon, their naked trees raking against the cloudless sky. As Tim guides the car around a hairpin curve, sunlight blasts from behind the mountain and pours through the windshield. I push my Aviator sunglasses higher. The oldies radio station I just found melts into static.

Huffing, I search through the never-ending white noise for something else. Eventually, I settle on a country song with a deep baritone twanging on about his long-lost lover and Ford F150.

"Hey, McGee," I say, "did I ever tell you that if you play a country song backwards you get your girlfriend, your truck, and your dog back?"

But he doesn't laugh. "Just change it, Tony."

Damn, I was pretty sure that joke would thaw his cold shoulder. With a dejected sigh, I fumble through the stations again. In the sea of static, I turn up two Gospel stations, three bluegrass and oddly enough, a punk rock one.

I shift between Gospel and country. "What'll it be, McGee? The soundtrack to _Sister Act_ or _Deliverance?_ Personally, I'd take nuns over hillbillies any day. But it's your choice. _"_

Tim doesn't say anything, so I leave it on Gospel. After a youth spent in Catholic school, he should give me something – anything – from these people lifting their hearts up to the Lord.

To bide my time, I glance out the window again. High on a hill stands a lonely house, surrounded by nothing but dark woods and clear blue sky. Smoke curls from the house's chimney before it billows into the air. The house's owner must've turned their back civilization a long time and the thought sends a chill down my spine.

Tim cranks the heater up to full blast and suddenly, the air goes from sweltering to insufferable.

The sweat pricks to my brow and I crack the window, but Tim uses the controls on his side to close it. When I try to open it again, the window won't budge. So I reach for the heater.

Tim holds up a warning hand. "Don't touch it, DiNozzo."

"Or what?" I swivel to face him. "You'll ignore me some more, McGee? That's real mature."

Making a face, he turns off the radio and the car grows uncomfortably silent. Tim works his jaw as he stares out at the stretch of highway. His fingers grip the steering wheel so tightly I'm afraid he might rip it in two and I imagine he's probably picturing his hands around my throat.

"Say what's on your mind, Tim," I say. "It's bad to keep things bottled up."

He lets out a hollow laugh. "You say that like you're some sort of expert on maturity. After all the years you spent supergluing me to my keyboard, stealing my lunch, and going through my desk. Come on."

I shoot him a sideways glance. "I haven't done any of those in a long time."

"You went through my stuff last week."

I blink. "How'd you know that?"

"You left a hair in the Scotch tape I put over my drawer seam. Abby did a DNA match for me and, surprise surprise, it was you again." Tim rolls his eyes. "What were you doing this time?"

"My Mighty Mouse stapler went missing. So I had probable cause to search your desk. I had to rule out the usual suspects and all." The look on his face says, _and those are?_ "You, Bishop, Jimmy, and Ducky. How was I supposed to have known Gibbs borrowed it to staple his report?"

"You could've gone through his stuff too."

I laugh until tears rise in my eyes. "Do you think I'm suicidal, McSuspect? Gibbs would've signed me up for Agent Afloat again. And as much fun as that was, I'd rather not see the world from the deck of a destroyer." I pause for a beat. "But that's not the real reason you're mad at me, is it?"

Tim slams his foot on the gas and the Charger snarls as it picks up speed. The first reaction from Tim in nearly a week makes me smirk. But I still don't know what the problem is.

Over the past few months, Tim has grown progressively more withdrawn and distant. It felt like something out of _Invasion of the Body Snatchers_. One day, Tim left work himself and showed up the next day as a completely different person. I tried to coax him into talking to me with Nutter Butters and coffee and sprinkled doughnuts where I ate all of the sprinkles.

But none of it worked.

He wouldn't talk about anything except the case at hand, his apartment, and occasionally, an update on Delilah's adventures in Dubai. Eventually, our weekly bar trips turned into me monologuing about my thoughts on shacking up with Zoe while Tim killed our bottle of wine alone. One night, in an effort to get him to talk, I took him to Gibbs' basement. We spent the night with our boss, downing bourbon, sanding a boat hull to death, and seeing who could get the most splinters. I got the worst hangover in human history and no useful information on why Tim was acting so weird.

After Plans A through F failed spectacularly, I moved on to Plan G–for girlfriend.

And, come to think of it, I bet that's why he's pissed.

"Are you upset because I called Delilah?" I ask.

He tromps on the gas pedal. Bingo.

"It wasn't a bad thing," I continue. "You started acting all squirrely and – "

"You called her to say you were concerned about my welfare, Tony. She was ready to come home until I talked her out of it."

I cock my head. "Would it have been such a bad thing?"

"Yes…no…maybe. I don't know." Tim rakes a hand through his hair. "I don't know anymore. You don't get it, Tony. Her job is like ours. She just can't drop everything and come running…" He looks stricken as soon as he says the word. "Do you have any idea how hard it is to travel with…her disability?"

"I can imagine, McGee, but she really would do anything for you. Even traveling thousands of miles at the last minute because you needed her." I glance back out the window. "She was a little surprised that you didn't tell her about your dad either."

"How did you…" Tim sounds so lost and heartbroken. "How did you know about that?"

"I picked up your phone one day when you were in the head because I thought it was related to the case." Outside, the mile markers fly past at record speed for Tim. "Why didn't you tell me your dad was in hospice?"

He stays quiet for a long time. "Because it isn't really your business."

My chest tightens. Outside of the car, the world goes by dizzyingly fast. Once beautiful, it now looks barren like an alien planet. "I always thought we were friends, Tim."

"We are, Tony," he says, quickly, placatingly. "I just didn't feel like talking about it. It's all I deal with outside of work and I just want to forget, for a few hours a day, that the man I just reconnected with won't be here in a few months."

"It's not like he had a choice," I say.

He draws a shaking breath. "But he did. He chose to go into hospice instead of staying with me until he passed away. I wanted more than anything to be there for him, but he couldn't even give me that in the end. Can you blame me for not telling everyone?"

I glance back to Tim, surprised to see how much older he looks in the pale sunlight. Like a man who had his entire world ripped apart in the span of a few weeks.

His struggles are nothing like what I have with my father–a conman hiding under the guise of an entrepreneur. I've tried to keep his secrets too. I'm not sure what I'd do if my dad showed up on my doorstep to tell me he's dying. Every time he turns up, I fear that might be the reason for the visit, but he's usually just looking for money. Perhaps I should count my blessings.

"Your dad probably didn't want to be a burden," I offer. "I wouldn't say I blame him either. Just don't let it ruin the time you two have left."

"I know and I'll try." Tim's nose wrinkles. "How's your dad been lately?"

I make a face. "Last I heard, he was trying to figure out way to win his ex-fiancée back. But we aren't talking about him, Tim, we're talking about you."

"Were," he says, holding a hand up. "We were talking about me and now, we're done."

I respect him too much to press, but I still have to know one thing. "Have you gotten over me calling Delilah yet?"

"Not quite." When I pull out my cell phone, he looks at me like I'm crazy. "What are you doing?"

"Calling Zoe so you can ask her about my deepest, darkest secrets. That would be make us even, right?" I check the dashboard clock. "She should be on her way to work."

"Actually, you don't have to do that." Tim touches a spot on his chest and winces. "I still have that bruise from the first time Zoe and I met. But Tony, thanks."

I blink. "For what?"

"Trying. It made me feel better, even though I don't think I will be." He sighs. "Not for a long time…"

"And that's okay, Tim," I say, patting his shoulder. "Just know that you aren't going through this alone."

His smile is thin, at best, and I take it as the end of our conversation. As we head for Front Royal, I hum the theme to _Deliverance_ under my breath. By the time we reach our exit, Tim joins in with all his off-key glory.


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer :** I own nothing, but the typos.

 **Warnings : Rated T for language.**

 **Author's Note :** _Thanks so much to everyone who's read, favorited, and followed so far. And extra thanks to everyone who left a review. Hearing what you think means the world to me._ **  
**

 _Enjoy._

 ** _-oooooooo-ooooooooo-ooooooooo-_**

Buried deep in the foothills of the Piedmonts, the Moser homestead is miles from anything that even remotely resembles civilization. I can't remember the last time we passed an inhabitable structure, let alone a real house. Tiny shacks with decaying cars line the pot-holed, single lane road.

Tim hangs a right onto a driveway that's a set of tire tracks cut into the grass. As the Charger bounces along the curving path, I fight to keep down the coffee I had for breakfast. Outside, an old shed collapses into itself and the trees slowly claim a herd of rusted out tractors.

The tire tracks end in a grassless patch, smack dab in between a huge farmhouse and an ancient barn. Both of them have an awkward slant to their roofs and exteriors forgot their original paint color long ago. Right now, they're neck-in-neck in a race to rejoin the earth. My money's on the barn.

I climb out of the car and take a deep breath. The air here is cool and crisp, weighed down only by the scent of wet dirt and old leaves. When a frigid wind roars past, I hug my jacket tighter.

Seconds later, Tim's head appears over the top of the car.

"We really are out in the middle of nowhere." The announcement earns me an eye roll. "Why do you think anyone would want to stay out here?"

"Just look around." Tim gestures at the view: tips of lifeless mountains kissing the cloudless sky. "It's absolutely breathtaking."

If his definition of breathtaking includes dead trees, decaying corpses of classic cars, and an infinite amount of crabgrass, Tim is delusional. Given the fact that not even a bird celebrates this so-called beautiful morning, this place is downright creepy.

He puts his hands on hips, inhales loudly. "Could you imagine waking up to this every day, Tony?"

"I'd go crazy."

Tim cocks an eyebrow. "Too late."

After I narrow my eyes at him, we move towards the house.

"This place reminds me of _Children of the Corn,"_ I whisper.

He glances around the farm. "There aren't any corn or kids here."

"So what, McMoviePhone? That farmhouse is a dead ringer for the one in the movie. I wouldn't be surprised if there's a cult of killer kids just waiting for us inside."

Tim genuinely laughs. "Or maybe it's just an old house?"

I shoot him a sideways glance. "Have you ever seen a horror movie?"

"I saw _Deliverance_ and _Jaws,_ but I guess I'm going to have to torrent _Children of the Corn_ this weekend to figure out what the hell you're talking about." He laughs. "Until then, let's just get this over with."

I shrug. "If some teenager crucifies you in a field, McGee, don't say I didn't warn you."

"I'll keep that in mind," Tim says, picking up the pace. "If we get out of here in time, do you mind if we stop for lunch at the coffee place we saw a few miles back? I'm starving."

"Sure, but you're paying."

We head over the grave of a vegetable garden with its inhabitants' skeletons left to rot after last week's frost. I snap my head up as I try to ignore the chill meandering down my spine. It's just the cold, I tell myself. Today's temperatures dip dangerously close to freezing.

I remind myself there are no crazed children hellbent on ridding the world of all the adults here.

I keep my eyes fixed on Tim's back when we climb the warped porch steps. Underneath our weight, the wood groans and shrieks as though we're torturing it. For a brief moment, I suspect Zoe lied to me when she said I looked like I lost weight recently. Either way, I might need to get serious about my diet again.

Tim takes a stance by the front door, hand on his service weapon, as I head down the porch to peer into one of the windows. Newspapers taped to the glass hide the interior, so I offer Tim a half-shrug. When I join him, I find him staring at the door intensely.

"Do you think anyone's home?" he asks.

"The driveway's deserted, but there's only one way to find out."

I wait a beat for him to knock, but he doesn't move. When I notice the tarantula-sized spider in the middle of the door, I chase it away. The insect sprints onto the porch, directly for Tim, and he bolts. By the time he's halfway to the car, I'm doubled over with laughter.

Tim stops dead. Then he turns back to give me his best Gibbs-impression. Nowhere near the master, but he might be close in a few more years.

"It was just a little bug, Timmy," I call.

He slinks back, stink-eye still out in full-force. "That thing was the size of my hand."

When he holds his hand out for emphasis, I copy the motion.

"Maybe yours, but mine's definitely bigger." Somehow, his face turns even more sour. "It wasn't going to hurt you, McGee. I bet it was more afraid of us than we are of it."

"Bullshit," he grunts. "Let's just get this over with."

After a quick nod, I stare at him until he knocks on the front door. I decide not to tell Tim about the legions of termites that are probably turning the house to Swiss cheese as we stand here.

A crash comes from inside.

Tim's hand jumps to his holster. "Did you hear that?"

"Maybe that spider has a friend."

When his cheeks go pale, I bite back a laugh. No one comes to the door, so I pound on it hard enough to rattle the hinges. There's a scraping that sounds like someone turning a deadbolt.

"Open up, federal agents," I announce. "We know you're in there."

"We have a warrant," Tim adds for flair, because we definitely don't yet.

Someone inside gives a loud sigh before the door cracks slightly. Half of a man's face appears. His skin so white it looks like he's never seen the sun and his visible eye is bloodshot, narrowed. Greasy black hair tumbles down into his face. The stench of mold and dust sneaks out of the house as though it were making a jailbreak, and it makes my eyes water.

Tim displays his badge and takes a full step back.

"Special Agents DiNozzo and McGee, NCIS," I say, flashing my own. "We're here to ask – "

"Federal agents?" The man crooks a suspicious stare. "What are you doing all the way out here?"

I glance at him over my sunglasses. "Investigating."

The man leans forward to scrutinize my creds as though he might be able to spot a fake. Tim quirks an eyebrow at me, but I shrug. Whatever it takes to get the wheels spinning. I don't care what we have to do as long as we finish interview over so I can take a nap on the way back to the city.

"Naval Criminal Investigative Service?" I think the man tries to smile, but only manages to bare his teeth. "Aren't you boys a little far from the ocean?"

"When we're in the middle of a case," Tim explains, "we get around." I disguise my laugh as a cough, but still earn myself a dirty look. "Do you know Charlene Moser? Mister…?"

"I'm her brother, Kenneth Gentry." He shakes our hands before sudden panic edges onto his pockmarked face. "Is everything okay? Did something happen to her?"

Tim presses his lips together. "It might easier if we speak inside, Mr. Gentry."

"Call me Kenneth, please. Just tell me whether my sister's okay."

"Charlene is fine," I interject, "but she is the prime suspect in a murder."

What little color is present drains away from Ken's cheeks. "Oh, I had…I had no idea she could do such a thing. Perhaps…you're right…please, come in."

As he slides out of the way, Ken holds out his arm to usher us inside. I hold my breath, fully expecting to discover a hoarder's paradise, but the décor is oddly reminiscent of the lifestyle magazines I used to find in Tim's desk. I pocket my aviators to admire the view.

Just beside the door, a shoe organizer holds a strange assortment of work boots and sneakers in various sizes. It strikes me odd that most of them are different sizes of men's shoes.

"How long have you been here, Ken?" I call.

"It's Kenneth." He glances over. "About four weeks. Charlene called me right after her husband got deployed. She thinks the house is too big for just her, so she feels safer with one of us around."

"Us?"

"Yeah, one of the family. There are five of us." His cheeky grin melts into a frown. "Well, once upon a time there were five. Sadly, our little sister passed away a few years ago. So now, we're down to four."

"I'm sorry to hear," I say.

"She's with G-d now and that's the only thing that matters."

After a tight nod, he leads us over the Oriental floor runner and past pictures of the Mosers from all over the world, down a long hallway into an expertly decorated living room. Even though the fabrics gave up their colors a long time ago, it's obvious that someone once took the time to ensure the busy floral pattern on the sofa matched the curtains and the throw pillows…and the rugs.

Ken claims a wingchair before he gestures to the couch. Without needing another invitation, Tim sinks into the sofa, but I linger by the bay window. From here, the highlighted view of the mountains might be breathtaking. I finally think I could understand why someone might abandon the city to come here.

"Can I get you boys anything? Coffee? Water?" Ken asks.

I nod. "I'll take a – "

"We're fine," Tim interrupts. "Do you mind if we ask you a few questions?"

Ken clasps his hands in his lap. "Anything."

"Do you know where your sister was last night?"

"Here. With me."

Tim takes out his notepad to dutifully record the interview while I size Ken up. Perched in his seat with his flannel shirt and ratty jeans, he looks as out of place as a koala on a submarine. He shoots me a bright smile, but it doesn't extinguish the niggling in my gut.

"You were together all night?" I ask.

Ken nods quick enough to give himself whiplash. "You bet. We watched a couple of movies and then, we went to bed around midnight. I didn't get up again until about six and by then, she was gone. I thought she'd gone for a run until you boys got here."

"For – " I check my watch " – six hours?"

"That's not unusual."

"Uh, yeah. Okay." I half-nod. "What did you watch?"

" _His Girl Friday_ and _Gentlemen Prefer Blondes."_

"You can never go wrong with Cary Grant or Marilyn Monroe." When Ken drops his gaze to the floor, that familiar niggling in my gut acts up. I bet he's lying about Charlene's alibi. So I add: "Say, Ken, what did you think about Rosalind Russell in _Gentlemen Prefer Blondes?_ Pretty ace, huh?"

Ken makes a face. "I thought she was quite talented. Rosalind Russell is a gorgeous blonde."

"Yeah, you're right about that."

Tim shoots me a look that says, _what does this have to do with anything?_

Okay, I could forgive a non-film buff for confusing Rosalind Russell from _His Girl Friday_ and Jane Russell from _Gentlemen Prefer Blondes._ But Jane Russell was the brunette, not the blonde. That was Marilyn Monroe. And there's no excuse for confusing anyone with Marilyn Monroe. Ever. I bet Ken didn't even watch the film.

Ready to get back to the interview, Tim shifts towards Ken. "Is it unusual for your sister to leave without telling you?"

Ken shakes his head. "Like I said, she liked to go for early morning runs. You see, she's training for a marathon in December. So she wanted to get her miles in before the snow started. She always hated the treadmill."

Tim makes a note. "Ah, did you – "

"Say, Ken," I interrupt, "where's your bathroom?"

While Ken tells me it's upstairs, Tim's face turns relieved like he's excited to have the privacy to complete the interview. Maybe he thinks he'll have everything wrapped up before I get back.

As I slowly climb the steps, I shoot Ellie a text: _Did we get our warrant yet?_

Her reply is instantaneous: _Still waiting. Will let you know as soon as it comes through._

Rolling my eyes, I pause on the landing to survey the top floor. Straight ahead is a small bathroom, its claw-foot tub plays hide-and-seek with me around the doorjamb. Three doors–probably leading to bedrooms—line a short, dark hallway. Two of them are closed, but the farthest one is slightly ajar.

While probable cause might be a stretch, I might be able to help Ellie get us that warrant if I find something visible from the hallway. My heart skips a beat, just like it always does when I have a hunch.

After slamming the bathroom door for effect, I sneak down the hallway. I ease myself against the rough wall, trying to peer through the tiny crack. But it isn't big enough. All I can make out is the edge of a brass daybed and a sliver of cherry wood dresser. So I slide the door open another inch to check the room. If it turns out to be important, I'll come up with an explanation later.

Three AR-M9 rifles lay innocently on the bed next to a pile of Kevlar body armor.

"Oh shit," I whisper.

I head inside to investigate. The stack of papers on the dresser is even more damning. I would recognize the layout of the Marine Base at Quantico anywhere. As I flip through the pages, the amount of information on how to infiltrate the base without being detected scares the hell out of me.

Why would Ken gearing up for a war on a Marine base?

Whatever the reason, I'm sure as hell not ready to find out. It'll have to wait until after Gibbs and Ellie—and preferably, Zoe with her friends at the ATF— get here before we ask those questions. Right now, I need to alert Tim so he can keep things cool and conversational downstairs while I notify Gibbs.

Back-pedaling, I scramble for my cell.

I start to text Tim, _Guns upst -_

"Drop the phone!"

Standing in the doorway is Ken with a shotgun aimed right at my chest.


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer :** I own nothing, but the typos.

 **Warnings : Rated T for language.**

 **Author's Note :** _Thanks so much to everyone who's read, favorited, and followed so far. And extra thanks to everyone who left a review._ **  
**

 _Enjoy._

 ** _-oooooooo-ooooooooo-ooooooooo-_**

"Hey, Ken," I say, as conversationally as I can, "how'd you get up here so fast?"

"I said, 'drop the phone,'" he growls again, his voice deeper and gruffer.

I hit send anyway. Then it lands on the ground with a soft thud and Ken gestures to my Sig with the barrel of his weapon.

"Kick that over here."

I pluck the gun out of my holster, carefully and slowly with two fingers, but he still grips his weapon like he might just use it. His finger hovers dangerously over the trigger and he's so twitchy I think he could to blow me away by accident. Actually, some grey matter might actually be an improvement on the décor up here.

"So, Ken," I say, "how did you get up here so quick? Did you teleport or something? And what's with all the weapons? Are you planning a party and forget to invite us?"

"Just pass me you gun."

I stoop to the ground and slide the Sig towards him. "You know what, I bet it was magic. You're a regular David Copperfield, aren't ya, Ken?"

"For the love of G-d, stop calling me that!" When the shotgun snaps up, I stand to my full height with my hands raised. "People get me confused me with that dumbass all the time. It's not my fault I lost the genetic lottery and have to look like that moron."

Ken Gentry has an identical twin. Great. That's just fucking perfect.

"Who the hell are you?" Not-Ken growls.

"Very Special Agent Anthony DiNozzo, NCIS, at your service. I'd show you my badge, but—" I gesture to the shotgun "—I'm a little concerned you might shoot me, if I do." When he doesn't say anything, I motion with my hand. "This is the part where you're supposed to introduce yourself." He still remains silent. "Unless you want me to call you David Copperfield or – " I raise my eyebrows "- Ken 2.0."

His jaw works like a spring. "Greg Gentry."

"See? Was that so hard?"

Greg glares at me as though he's trying to decide what to do with me. The look on his face send my heart skipping into my throat and I hope to hell it doesn't involve using me—and Tim—for target practice. I don't want to be the one to have to explain to Gibbs why we would both be on indefinite leave.

Then again, if I'm dead….I wouldn't have to, right? But then again, that doesn't sound particularly appealing either.

"So who's older?" I ask. "You or Ken?"

His stare turns more lethal than his weapon. "It doesn't matter."

"Ah, that explains a—"

"Just shut up!" When I do, he immediately asks: "What the hell are the feds doing here?"

"What do you want me to do? Shut up or talk?"

He tightens his grip on the gun. "Answer the damn question."

"If you expect me to share my secrets, why don't you tell me why you've got enough firepower for your own army?" I shoot him a sideways glance. "Then maybe we can braid each other's hair."

When his grip jerks on the gun, I hold my breath. While I'm not trying to earn myself a bullet, Tim needs to keep the situation under control downstairs. I really hope he bothered to read my text.

"Why are you here?" he growls through clenched teeth.

Even I can't deny the deranged look in Greg's eye, so I launch into a convoluted and overly detailed rehashing of last night's murder scene, Charlene Moser's arrest, and our little trip to the middle of nowhere. At the mention of Petty Officer Lake, Greg's face turns disgusted, but I don't bother with follow-up questions. His answer would probably be a gut full of buck-shot.

I just prattle on about our case, hoping all the while Tim will sneak up on Greg at any moment. I'm in the middle of telling Greg about how Abby's new PCR machine will get us enough DNA from our trace blood to get a match on the killer when his eyes glaze over. I bet his mind is a million miles away by now, probably somewhere in the land of NASCAR and Budweiser.

Seeing my first opening, I sneak an inch forward. When he doesn't react, I steal another, trying to creep far enough until I can—hopefully—grab the gun.

At that moment, a crash, followed by a shout, echoes from downstairs.

Greg snaps back to life. "What the hell? Did you warn your friend?"

"No." The gun lines up with my heart. "No way. He probably got suspicious because I've been in the head for like a half an hour. I'm usually an in-and-out kinda guy."

His looks calls me a liar, but he jerks his head towards the door. "Let's go, Fed, but don't do anything stupid."

I decide not to tell him that Gibbs thinks stupid is my middle name.

I slide around him in a huge semi-circle until I'm the one in front of the door. My muscles are tense and tight, aching for action. If we were side-by-side, I doubt Greg would be a tough adversary. Soft and pudgy, he looks more like a punching bag than an all-star fighter. But add a shotgun to the mix and all bets are on him.

"Move," he snaps.

Being one to always follow orders, I bolt down the hallway.

"Hey, Fed, stop!" Greg shouts.

When I don't, he fires his gun. The shot echoes through the house like a cannon. Bits of drywall rain down on me in a powdery snowstorm. I press my hands to my head, my back, my ass to make sure I haven't been hit. Even if I am, it wouldn't matter. I need to keep moving.

I run straight down the stairs, all hopped up on adrenaline and raw fear.

"McGee," I shout. "Run!"

But as I race towards the door, I nearly barrel into the real Ken. He holds a gun up at eye-level and it stops me dead in my tracks. My breath comes in strident gasps, panicked and deranged.

"Where's my partner?" I say.

Ken jerks his head towards the living room. "Why don't we have another chat about my sister, Agent DiNozzo? One without any lies this time."

When Greg joins us and sidles up next to Ken, my blood turns to ice. Two identical crazy bastards stand shoulder to shoulder, their guns pointed at my heart and my head. Two kill shots. Swallowing hard, I try not to imagine what they might've done to Tim.

Greg's shotgun in my side spurs me into the living room. I walk into it with my eyes closed because I'm just not ready to see Tim bleeding out on the floor.

Poor Ellie is going to get stuck doing all the paperwork when we're dead.

For a moment, I can picture our funerals with the 21-gun salute, the flag ceremony, and Taps. All of the stereotypical bullshit that agents swear they never want, but wouldn't be buried without. Just like Kate swore up and down that she didn't until it was her turn to visit to the gun range in the sky.

"Tony," I hear Tim say. His voice is tight and worried.

Oh thank G-d, my partner is still alive.

I breathe for the first time since I met Greg upstairs. Maybe Tim and I will still have a chance to get out of here unscathed. I open my eyes to find Tim on the sofa with his hands flat against his legs. Nasty purple bruising has already started to claim his jawline and his lower lip swells up like a balloon. His empty holster lies on the coffee table along with his wallet, badge, phone, and knife.

By the other side of the sofa, another man stands at attention with a handgun pointed at Tim. He is a far younger version of Ken and Greg.

I can't help myself. "Triplets? That's a great twist. I didn't see that coming. At all."

Greg's eyelid twitches. "Kenneth and I are the twins, Sammy's the youngest."

"Ah, nice to meet you, Sammy. I'd shake your hand, but—" I gesture to the gun "—well, you know."

"Just clean out your pockets and sit down," Greg orders.

Certain I'm already on thin ice, I add most of my stuff into the pile next to Tim's. After I sink into the seat next to him, we apprehensively watch the trio of brothers have a family meeting right in front of us. Tim struggles to stay cool and collected, but his veneer cracks with every passing second.

"What should we do, Tony?" he asks.

The way he says my name makes my heart skip a beat. He sounds exactly like he used to back in his Probie days, back when he used to come to me for help, back when the only real threat was Gibbs on a warpath over a cold case and a lead's dead end.

Now, real terror burns like fire in his eyes.

"Wait for an opening and run like hell," I say.

He nods tightly. "Did you call Gibbs?"

"Didn't get a chance. Did you?"

"No. When I went to use the phone, Sammy came out from the kitchen. I think he saw me get your text and when I reached for my weapon…" Tim works his jaw, wincing. "What was upstairs?"

"Enough weapons for an army."

We share a tense silence.

Eventually, he says: "Like _Call of Duty?"_ When I blink, he smiles lopsidedly. "It's a video game, Tony. You aren't the only one who gets to reference your hobby for the hell of it."

"If there are M9's in that game, McGamer, I'll give you get a pass on the crappy timing."

Tim's face pales. "That's not good."

"No shit. These guys are about to go to war for something, their sister is covering up a murder, and they just took us hostage." I press my lips together. "I think this ranks up in terms of major suckage."

He sneaks a tight smile. "Like _Twilight_ bad or _Gigli_ bad?"

"Both of them combined with an extra pinch of and K. Stew for good measure." When Tim's cheeks go even whiter, I grin. "But if you ever admit that you've seen either one of those movies, I'll shoot you myself."

While we talk, the brothers actively discuss our fate. Both Sammy and Ken make one argument while Greg's face twist into a scowl so deep I think his face might disappear.

I catch Ken whisper, "…trade them for her."

When they glance back at us, it's clear they have plans. Tim draws a deep, shaking breath. The brothers come closer, guns drawn and ready, and Tim forgets to inhale. I tap his shoulder with my elbow, spurring him back to life.

He works his hands into fists. His back goes rigid as he gears up for a fight.

"Whatever happens, follow my lead." When he doesn't relax, I lean closer. "That's an order, McGee."


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer :** The typos are mine...all mine. And that's about it.

 **Warnings : Rated T for language, violence, and blood.**

 **Author's Note :** _Thanks to everyone who read, favorited and followed so far. And thank you to everyone who left a review. I love hearing what you think._ **  
**

 _Enjoy._

 ** _-oooooooo-ooooooooo-ooooooooo-_**

"Really great plan, DiNozzo," Tim growls. "How the hell do we get out of this one?"

In the grand scheme of things, our current position really isn't terrible. Okay, fine, so we're locked in the laundry room. And we are sitting on the floor, handcuffed together with the cuffs wrapped around the pipe to a wash sink. But still, we're alone and the Clampett brothers aren't anywhere to be found.

I'd rather take my chances with the sink than three rednecks with guns.

"We get loose," I suggest simply, "then we get the car."

He groans. "They took our keys, remember?"

"Correction, McHostage, they took your keys." I jiggle mine in my pocket. "I can still use the car to get us out of here."

"Then why don't you use them on the handcuffs?" After I laugh anxiously, I don't need to see Tim's face to know he's pissed. His huff tells me everything. "You didn't bring the cuff key, did you?"

I rub the back of my neck. "I don't usually. Once you get 'em cuffed, it's not like you really need to cut them loose. Booking generally takes care of that." Tim huffs again. "Look, McGee, if you want to get out of here, just help me with the sink."

"Fine."

When he shifts his weight, he jerks me sideways. My head bounces off the sink with a thud that echoes all the way through my brain and for a moment, tiny, black stars explode in my vision. When the cartooned birds don't come next, I feel a little forsaken. Since we're about to channel our inner Wiley Coyotes against the sink, it seems only right for the Merry Melody birds to join the fun.

Moaning, I massage my temple. I'm going to have to watch that next head slap from Gibbs because it might just prove fatal.

"Come on, Tony," Tim calls. "Stop messing around over there. We need to get moving."

"Thanks for reminding me."

He shifts again and I brace myself against the sink this time. I jerk myself backwards, yanking him into it instead. The sound of his face colliding into the plastic resonates—he didn't hit it nearly as hard as I did. He yelps and mutters a curse.

When he recovers, he tugs on my arm again. But I beat him to it.

There's another thud, followed by a louder groan and an even more colorful curse. To let him know I'm serious, I grab his hand. He goes slack in my grasp.

"Truce, Tony, truce." When I let go, he sighs. "Can we get out of here now? Please."

I nod. "Sure, but we need to get the sink out of the way."

"How?"

"Rip it out of the wall."

I picture him rolling his eyes. "Of course."

We move in tandem until our cuffed arms are pressed against the base of the sink and our free hands grasp the top. I shift into a crouch and on the other side, I hear Tim do the same.

With my face smashed flat against the plastic, I say, "Are you ready?"

"As I can be," he replies, voice muffled.

"Alright, on three." The sink presses deep against my arm. "One…two…three."

At the same time, we surge upwards against the appliance. My muscles shake and scream from the sudden – and infrequent – use. The sink lets out a baleful moan before it rocks forward ever so slightly. But it isn't enough. I collapse at the same time Tim does and we both lie there, panting and groaning.

"Are you ready to try again?" he asks.

I wheeze. "Just…give me…a few…more…minutes."

I stay there for much longer than that, breathing hard and staring at the popcorn ceiling overhead. After we get out of this, I'm making the gym a priority again. Maybe I can convince Zoe to lift weights with me like we used to back in Philly. I bet she still looks as good in spandex.

And suddenly, my motivation to get free reignites.

"Okay, Tim, let's get the hell out of here."

"Right," he says, and we maneuver back into position.

"One…two…three."

We burst upwards with more force than before. The heavy plastic of the sink digs into my shoulder, but I grind my teeth and go to my happy place: Zoe working her ass off in a pair of spinning shorts.

I will get out of here to see that again.

Just as my muscles are about to give up, the sink releases a heartbroken creak before it explodes from the wall with a huge chunk of plaster. The pipe breaks free too and water gushes out like a geyser. Before Tim and I have a chance out of the way, we end up completely drenched. My coat and suit weigh a thousand pounds each. My partner looks more like a drowning victim than a federal agent.

"Great," Tim grouses. "We're soaking wet."

I ring out my coat's hem. "It could be worse. We could still be cuffed to the sink."

He glares at me. "But I'm still cuffed to you."

"Would you rather I be Gibbs?"

All I get is a huff and an eye roll.

After one last look at the once-immaculate laundry room with a water that rises with Biblical strength, I break the lock on the laundry room door and we make our way into the main house. We squelch as quietly as we can through the kitchen towards the back door. One look tells me that even if I could pick the deadbolt, we couldn't escape due to the pile of junk on the porch.

"That's a fire hazard," Tim says.

"Remind me to tell Gibbs to bring the fire marshal." I meet his dead-eye stare, desperate to switch gears. "Do you think they're still here?"

He closes his eyes for a moment, listens hard. "I don't hear anything. Maybe they left?"

"Here's hoping, McGee."

I move forward and Tim follows like my shadow. After a few feet, it makes my skin crawl. We slink into the hallway towards the living room and come up empty. When we arrive at the front door, I turn back.

Tim is inches from my face.

His hair is slicked against his forehead and his cheeks are ruddy from the frigid water with that bruise on his chin going a gruesome purple. Dread works its way onto his face, but I can't have that right now.

So I narrow my eyes. "Stop breathing down my neck."

Annoyance quickly replaces the fear. Now, that I can work with.

"I'm not trying to." But he exhales towards me on purpose.

I put my free hand up. "Seriously, knock it off."

He takes a full step away until we're at arm's length. "Is this better?"

I sigh contentedly. "Much."

Closing his eyes, he moves his mouth as though he's saying everything he ever wanted to under his breath. Eventually, he looks past me at the door.

"Can we go now?" he asks.

With a nod, I head through the front door with Tim on my heels again. As soon as we're outside, the freezing, autumn air bites through my wet clothes before it settles into my bones. An icy wind leaves us shivering as I scan the yard for signs of life. Our breaths come in thick, white puffs. Thankfully, the entire space between the forest and the barn is completely deserted.

The Charger is exactly where we parked it.

I fish my keys out, ready to bolt for the vehicle, but Tim holds us back.

"We need to be smart about this," he says. "They've got to be around here somewhere."

He takes the porch steps slowly as I follow him. Even though I urge him to move faster, he keeps up the snail's pace as though we might not make it to the car if we ran. His anxious gaze rakes over the driveway, but there isn't anything to find. We creep, side-by-side, with the car in sight.

I notice someone leaning against the barn with a cigarette resting between his lips. Sammy stares at us, wide-eyed and shocked, like a deer trapped in a car's headlights. Smoke curls up from his cigarette, racing towards the sky.

Tim freezes, his entire body going rigid.

At that moment, the entire world stops.

My heart skips a beat before it hammers away, sending adrenaline coursing through my bloodstream. Sammy raises the gun and then, everything catches up again.

"McGee, run!"

I grab Tim's hand and yank him towards the woods. Tim's big brain obviously takes longer to process everything because he doesn't react for a few steps. Then, he struggles to catch his stride. Snippets of trees and rusted out cars rush past as we sprint over the uneven ground.

Somewhere behind us, a gunshot cracks.

Oh shit. That was a freaking shotgun.

Birds crow and cry as they abandon their perches. The mud sucks on my dress shoes, trying to drag me down like quicksand. Branches snap and gnaw at my cheeks, but I don't drop Tim's hand. He stumbles again and I barely give him a chance to regain his balance.

"Keep moving, Tim!"

"I'm trying." He pants. "I'm trying."

Another shot echoes. Handgun, farther away this time.

"Holy shit," he murmurs. "They're shooting at us."

We run even deeper into the woods with the gunshots spurring us onward. It sounds like the brothers are spreading out to search for us.

I stop dead and Tim barrels into me, nearly knocking us over. He doubles over to his knees, his breaths coming in struggling gasps. His body trembles violently. I wrap my free hand around my chest, trying to encourage some warmth back into my muscles.

Another handgun shot rings out, somewhere deep in the woods to the left.

"Tony…what…what are..." Tim inhales like he's about to die. "What are…we…doing?"

I hold a finger to my lips, strain my ears. Birds shriek and leaves rustle in the wind. The shotgun booms somewhere to the right. Fifty yards, give or take. Moments later, the handgun goes off again to the left. It's merely yards away, deeper into the woods than we are. But close enough that we might get caught.

"Tony?" Tim glances up. "We need to – "

"Get to the car. Now!"

One hard jerk to the cuffs and he rises, exhausted and ready. After a few yards, he lags behind. So I grab his arm and force him forward. Once we get back to work, I'm taking his sorry ass to the gym with me. Next time, he better be the one dragging me through the damned forest.

Shots crack at random intervals, some closer than others.

I try to tune them out, but every single one makes me flinch and Tim inhale sharply. So I choose to focus my attention on getting us to the car intact. If I lose my head, Tim will too.

And well, I'd rather not think about that.

After what feels like a lifetime, we come across scraps of civilization: a rusted out car here, a motorcycle frame there. My heart lifts when I recognize the corpse of a Mustang we passed on the way into the woods.

Another gunshot cracks, closer than before.

Tim goes down hard, dragging me with him. I land face first in the mud. Over the ringing in my ears, I barely make out Tim's groan. He moves his hands towards the back of his leg and my cuffed hand grazes something sticky, wet, and hot. It boils against my skin, scorches against the cold air.

If we don't get moving, we're as good as dead.

I push myself up and he groans again. My body goes on high alert as my eyes dart around the tree line for the brother. Someone has to be nearby. That shot sounded way too close for comfort.

"Come on, McGee," I start, "we need to – "

His moan twists my gut. "My leg…Tony. I think…I think I'm hit."

Those words ignite panic in my gut as I turn to my partner.

Flat on his back, Tim screws his face in agony. His shaking free hand scrabbles for the back of his left thigh. At that moment, I notice the blood on my fingertips.

He gasps. "How bad…how bad is it?"

I inspect his leg as best as I can. There's an entry wound in the back of his thigh, no exit. The blood flows heavily, but there's no spray. Thank G-d. That means while the bullet probably didn't nick an artery, but it's still buried deep inside his leg. If I can slow the flow, he might live long enough to see a hospital.

"Tony, just tell me. How bad is it?" His voice jumps an octave.

"You'll live," I say, as much for my benefit as his.

I remove my knife from my belt buckle, and then I shrug off my coat. I slice the sleeve open so I maneuver it around the handcuffs. When I use it to apply pressure to Tim's leg, he yelps at my touch.

Blood slowly seeps under my coat, dribbling through my fingers until the ground beneath us darkens. I press harder and he writhes away from me, a cry dying in his throat. Sweat pricks to his forehead, adding to the mess of sink water and mud.

"Tony?" Tim's gaze wanders towards his leg.

"Look at me, McGee," I order. "Keep your eyes on me."

He hisses when I apply even more pressure. "Oh G-d, Tony, that hurts."

"I know, Tim, I know." I check the bleeding and it's, mercifully, slowing down. Then I add: "I'm sorry," so quietly that he doesn't hear me over his strident breathing.

When his eyes dip to half-mast, terror burns through me like wildfire and for a moment, I'm terrified my heart will try to escape my chest. I shake Tim to rouse him.

"You stay awake," I say. "That's an order."

He smiles through the pain. "You always boss me around."

"That's because I'm the senior field agent. It's my job to tell you want to do, remember?" When he starts to slip away again, I shoot him a grin. "Speaking of work, you're writing my report."

Indignation keeps him alert. "What? Why? This isn't my fault."

"Because I said so."

"That's…bullshit, Tony. Write your own report." Then he manages a small, conspiratorial smile. "Or we should make Bishop do it."

"Oh really? And I wanted to read about this experience with your flowery author language." I laugh. "Remember that last book? When you wrote, 'The way the leafless trees stretched after G-d in the cloudless sky like a congregation of the damned as Agent Tommy walked out of the courtroom, his faith gone forever.'? "

He makes a face. "That was one line, Tony, and it never even made it into the book."

Frowning, I sigh. "Talk about a shame because I kind of liked it."

The pallor of Tim's cheeks and his trembling breaths turns my guts to ash. Beside my cuffed hand, I feel his tremble. His eyes still hold mine and I struggle to school the fear from my face. His body begins to go slack, so I adjust my hold on his leg.

He gasps, his head slamming back against the ground. At least, he's still awake.

"When's the next one coming out?" I ask.

His brow furrows. "I thought you…never…read them."

"I might have skimmed the first one. Plus, it was nice being known as a minor celebrity around the agency." When I nod, he doesn't react. "What are you going to call Bishop? And where'd Agent Lisa go?"

"Lisa joined MI-5, deep…cover…stuff. And Bishop, well, I don't know…" His voice trails off.

"I bet you're going to name her Belly Queen, huh?"

He perks up long enough to narrow his eyes. "I would never give a character an awful name like that."

"Tell that to Pimmy Jalmer."

When he slips away again, I check his leg. The blood still seeps underneath the coat, through my fingers, all over the ground. The earth beneath him turns a terrifying black.

I need to get the bleeding to stop, so I reach to remove my belt.

Tim stares up at me like I've finally lost it. "What are you doing, Tony?"

"I'm going to make a tourniquet." That wakes him right up. "Don't worry, Tim. I know what I'm doing. I saw it in _Open Water_. It was a great film about being lost at sea and surrounded by sharks. Not anything like what we're—"

"No."

I cock my head. "What?"

"I don't want a tourniquet, Tony. I'd rather die than..." He swallows as though he searches for the courage to continue. "I'd rather die…than lose…my leg."

My heart drops into my stomach. "Are you sure?"

When he nods, I want nothing more than to head-slap some sense into him. But I don't have the time reason with him. So I get back to our original plan: to get the hell of here.

Thankfully, the bleeding from his leg has slowed enough for us to get moving. I try to lift him, but it's awkward with the cuff and Tim is far heavier than he looks. Way too much muscle and not enough Nutter Butters.

"Alright, McGee," I say. "Let's take this nice and slow."

And as I stand up, I help him to his feet. The movement is uneasy at best with me bearing most of his weight as he hobbles forward.

"Tony, I don't…think…" he pants heavily. "I…don't…think…I – "

"DiNozzo Rule Nineteen."

He shoots me a look. "What?"

"If you're not dead, walk it off."

"Did you just make that up?"

"Nah," I lie, "it's always been one, but it seems applicable now."

Tim's face turns into a grim mask of determination, burying the agony I'm sure he feels deep underneath it. As we make our way back to the car slowly, I strain my ears for any sound of the approaching brothers. Just as I discern the outline of the barn through the foliage, a crash echoes in the underbrush.

With my heart wedged firmly in my throat, I glance over my shoulder.

Sammy caught up to us.


	6. Chapter 6

**Disclaimer :** I own nothing, but the typos.

 **Warnings : Rated T for language.**

 **Author's Note :** _Thanks so much to everyone who's read, favorited, and followed so far. And extra thanks to everyone who's left a review. It means a lot to me._ **  
**

 _Long chapter today. So settle in and enjoy it!  
_

 ** _-oooooooo-ooooooooo-ooooooooo-_**

"Don't you know what a warning shot is, Sammy?" Ken uses his gun to gesture towards me and Tim.

When Sammy drops his gaze to the ground, Ken points at us with his gun again. If he doesn't stop doing that, I'm going to kick his ass… as soon as I'm certain I won't get Tim killed for the honor.

But right now, the odds of Tim and I getting turned into cannon fodder are overwhelming. Lying on the ground, my partner teeters on the edge of consciousness while I keep as much pressure on his leg as he can tolerate. Fear mixes with the agony on his face when he rouses slightly.

"Tony," he whispers.

"It'll be okay, McGee." Our eyes meet. "Just trust me."

After a barely there nod, he goes slack in my grasp.

My stomach somersaults like I'm on a runaway Tilt-a-Whirl. All around me, the world is spinning at a million miles an hour and nothing I can do will stop it. I just asked my friend to trust me when I don't have a plan to keep us both alive.

I grind my teeth while I struggle to come up with something, anything. I'd love for both of us to get through this, but right now, I'll settle for Tim making it out in one piece. Because if he doesn't…well, I don't even want to think about what Gibbs – or the rest of the team, for that matter – will do to me.

My gaze wanders back to the brothers' active conversation. Ken continues to berate Sammy while Greg stands several feet away, his back rigid and his lips pulled into a tight line. Tim and I must have wandered into some sort of a dysfunctional family squabble.

"It's a warning," Ken drones on. "You want to let someone know that you have a gun. You want to scare the hell out of them, not actually shoot them."

Sammy runs his shoe along the dirt. "I'm sorry."

"Don't you remember what Dad used to say?"

"Yeah," he says, sounding like he's on the verge of tears, "'sorry doesn't matter.' I didn't mean for anyone to get hurt. I just thought it would make them stop."

Ken pinches the bridge of his nose. "It did, but that's not the point."

"For the love of G-d, Kenneth," Greg interjects, "just shut up the fuck already. Sammy got the job done, even if he made a little mistake."

Ken points the gun at us again. "Does that look like a little mistake to you? Sammy shot a federal agent and he…he doesn't look too great right now. What do you suggest I do? Pat Sammy on the back and say, 'great job, chief'?"

"It'd be a start," Greg grouses.

Shoulders hitching, Sammy sniffles like a little kid on the wrong end of a lecture. He wipes his sleeve against his nose and I catch the unmistakable sound of snot and tears held back. He probably isn't much more than a kid himself.

"How about you help us figure out a way to fix this?" Greg replies, throwing his hands up. "You're the one who always wants us to come to you when we have a problem."

Ken licks his lips. "Well, you're the know-it-all. So let's hear your idea."

When Greg glances at us, the predatory look in his eyes turns his blood to ice. I put myself between them and Tim.

Greg snickers before he turns back to Ken. "We've still got one good bargaining chip. I think if the government wants to see him alive again, they'd be inclined to let Charlene go."

"And the other one?"

"Let's leave him here and let nature take its course." When Ken starts to protest, Greg plucks the handgun from his waistband. "Or if you don't want him to suffer, we can help it along. Since you are a bleeding heart and all."

Holding his hand to his chin, Ken studies his twin. "So that's your master plan to get our sister back? Trade one agent and his friend's body for our sister?"

Greg grins as though he's happy his brother finally sees his side. "It's a great idea, right?"

My heart wedges itself higher in my throat as I come up with a 'Hail Mary' escape attempt.

If I can just get Tim to his feet, we might make it a few inches before the brothers gun us down. But I'd rather go out in a blaze of glory than watch my friend die and wait for the agency to tell these losers to pound sand. Because I'll get a bullet in the brain when that happens anyway.

I shift Tim closer, so I'll be able to yank him up.

He glances up, eyes half-lidded, as he searches mine for some explanation. But I have nothing to offer. The confusion sweeps from his face, quickly replaced by a look of unwavering trust that terrifies me far more than our impending death.

He squeezes my hand as though to say, _Thanks for the run. It was a good one_.

Something that feels oddly like regret rises in my chest.

Right before I move, Ken bursts out laughing.

"You're an idiot," he says, earning him a glare from Greg. "That kind of thing will get us on the Most Wanted List. Do you think…" He looks over at me. "Where are you boys from again?"

"NCIS," I offer with a smile.

"Okay." Ken nods, turns to Greg. "Do you really think NCIS will just hand over our sister on a silver platter when they find out we killed one of their agents? That's not how this works."

I decide not to tell him trying to exchange a pair of hostages for a prisoner probably won't work either. Instead, I watch Tim's eyes close again, the rise and fall of his chest even out. Some color manages to return to his cheeks, making him look more normal.

"Then enlighten me," Greg growls through gritted teeth.

"We go with the original plan to trade 'em both," Ken explains, "but we'll have to move up the time-table. Let's get them back to the farm, so we can make that phone call."

"But we aren't ready yet."

Ken shakes his head. "It doesn't matter. If that fed dies, we lose our chance to get back our sister. Do you really want to lose another sibling?"

At the mention of losing another sister, Greg and Sam share a drawn, crestfallen look.

Closing my eyes, I try to remember whether we knew anything about her this morning. Unfortunately, we didn't delve deep enough into Charlene Moser's personal life to know about her Brady Bunch-sized family. Hell, I don't even remember anything about Sammy or the twins. Since the case seemed like such a slam-dunk, we got sloppy.

Scratch that, I got sloppy. If I'd done my due diligence, Tim and I probably wouldn't even –

I'm so lost in my own mind that I don't notice how hard I squeeze his arm until Tim groans. The brothers glance over at us as though they'd forgotten we were still here. Sadness dances in Greg's eyes and his rough exterior fade momentarily.

"Losing Merilee was more than enough," he murmurs.

"Then let's save Charlene," Ken says.

Then, the brothers creep towards us. Instinctively, I guard Tim. Greg stops just out of my reach, with his gun trained on me, while Sammy continues to slink forward.

As soon as he gets close enough, I kick him in the shin.

If it hurts, he sure as hell doesn't show it. I punch him in the gut and he doesn't even flinch. Instead, he drives his fist against my ear. Something pops in my jaw and momentarily, the world greys around the edges. Falling forward on my hands, I listen to the sound of my own gasps as I struggle to stay awake.

Sammy has enough time to unlatch the cuffs from Tim's wrist and drag me several feet away. Before my mind stop spinning enough to fight back, I'm flat on my back against the dirt with my hands cuffed in front of me. He keeps an uncompromising boot against my chest and a gun pointed at my face.

Helplessly, I watch Tim try to fend off the twins. Even though he's half-asleep, the fight he puts up is admirable. He lands a hit to Ken's junk. When the hell did the Probie learn to fight dirty? I bet he picked that up from Gibbs, not me. He gears up to strike Greg, but one back hand from the brother ends it all.

After they inspect Tim's leg, the twins share the same grim face like some sort of fucked up Double Mint commercial. Then Greg lifts Tim from the ground and throws him over his shoulder as though my partner weighs nothing at all.

"Nothing stupid, got it?" Sammy says.

After I nod, he yanks me to my feet. I work my jaw to get rid of the ringing in my ears.

With Greg and Ken in the lead, we cut our way through the trees back to the farm. I stumble over the uneven ground, my dress shoes slipping in the mud and wet leaves.

We're nearly back at the farm when I notice a rusted out husk of a classic Mustang lurking in the trees. The sight of it stops me dead in my tracks. Based on the body styling and frame shape, it's the same model year as the one Trent Kort blew up over a decade ago with what everyone thought was me inside.

Is this what people mean when they say you see your life flashes before your eyes when you die? Maybe it isn't the actual events playing through your brain like a movie, but tiny nuances you recognize in real life only if you're really paying attention.

Closing my eyes, I suck in a deep breath.

So far today, I recognized my mother's favorite movie, my old car, and the re-emergence of Tim's probie voice. That's too many for a coincidence, if you ask my boss. Hell, if you ask Gibbs, one is way too much.

A part of me wonders whether Laird Cregar as the Devil will be waiting for me like he was for Don Ameche in _Heaven Can Wait._ Maybe I'll be just as lucky to get rejected from hell. But who am I kidding? I've done far too many horrific acts in this life to earn myself a place amongst the angels in the clouds.

But I can still make one thing right.

Sammy barrels into me. "Keep moving."

I keep my eyes fixated on Greg's back and Tim's unconscious form. Even if I'm going to die today, I will make sure my partner doesn't.

Before long, we stumble through the forest, back into the driveway. The Charger is exactly where we left it, mocking Tim and me with just how close safety is. I still have the keys, but we aren't going anywhere.

The bright sunlight shrinks the shadows beneath our feet to nothingness.

My mind wanders on auto-pilot through the plot to _High Noon_ and ends on the scene where Gary Cooper and Ian McDonald have their fateful showdown. I'm not thinking about the movie because it's important—which really, it isn't. But because it's the same thought I have during every road trip…right before Gibbs calls to check in before he goes for his seventh coffee refill.

As soon as he figures out something's wrong, he and Bishop will be out here in double-time.

My heart lifts. Maybe there is hope for me and Tim just yet.

When I head for the house, Sammy grabs the crook of my arm and leads me towards the barn. Up ahead, Greg carries Tim inside.

I hustle to keep up and bolt through the door. Sunlight filtering through the holes in the walls gives the place a horror movie vibe, and the reek of must and rotting hay doesn't help things either.

With my heart in my throat, I squint through the darkness until I find my partner.

In the farthest corner, Tim is propped up on a pile of straw. Ken retrieves a bucket of water and couple of hand towels before kneeling by Tim's side. I fight the overwhelming urge to kick the bastard. Before I take my first step, Sammy holds me back.

"Kenneth is helping," he explains.

I grind my teeth. "Like you did by shooting him?"

Sammy bristles. "It was an accident. I'm – "

"If my friend dies, you know that's murder one, right?" When I glance up at him, Sammy's face pales. "That gets you the needle, if you're lucky."

He swallows audibly. "And if I'm not?"

"My boss is an ex-sniper who'll put a bullet through your eye. They say you can smell sulfur and sawdust right before the back of your head explodes."

He sniffles. He might be trying to make there's no bullet on its way or hold back tears. It's a bit of a crapshoot. I pause for a long moment before I play my only hand.

"You can fix everything, Sammy. Did you know that?" Turning towards him, I hold his gaze. "You might not walk away, but it sure beats getting your brains blown out."

Pressing his lips together, he considers the suggestion. "What do I have to do?"

"Help me get Agent McGee out of here. I'll stay with you three as long as you need, but – " I glance back to my partner's ashen face " – he doesn't deserve to die today."

Sammy gives Tim a long, hard look.

I force a smile. "Wouldn't letting him go show my boss how compassionate you and your brothers are? Wouldn't it help you get your sister back so you can be a family again?"

He stares at me for a long time as though I might be getting through to him. A torrent of emotions sweeps across his open and vulnerable face like a hurricane before his expression goes unreadable. Panic swells in my chest because I need him talking. If I have any hope of making a connection, I need to know what's going on inside his head.

"Why don't you tell me about Merilee," I say.

His face pinches. "She was 12 years older than me but she was the youngest…until I came along."

"Ah, you were 'the oops' baby."

"No." Then a more vitriolic: "Absolutely not." He grips my arm, hard. "I was wanted, but my parents just waited a long, long time before they were ready. They loved me, just like my siblings do."

I shake my head. "If they did, you wouldn't be here right now."

He gets close enough for me to catch the scent of the mint gum on his breath. "And what do you know? You come here from DC with your fancy suit, fat paycheck, and your perfect life. Don't stand there and pretend like you understand anything about us."

I know I'm about to lose this negotiation. My brain flies through the lecture I sat through at FLETC over fifteen years ago about how to survive being taken hostage. Everything is in bit and pieces, ripped apart so it could be relearned from Gibbs. _Humanize yourself,_ I think I remember, _connect with your captor and whatever you do, don't give them a reason to kill you._

"You're right," I say. "I don't understand."

Sammy smiles at me smugly while I draw a deep breath, ready to spill one of my deepest, darkest secrets to some guy who just wants to put a bullet in my brain.

"I'm an only child who wasn't wanted," I say quietly. "Maybe my mom wanted me, but I don't remember her much. After she died, my dad shipped me off to the best private schools money could buy. There's nothing quite like being that kid who has to hide out on campus during Christmas break because your dad didn't bother to come pick you up."

He blinks, taken aback. "That couldn't have happened."

"Sophomore year while I was at military school." I smile sadly at the memory. "Nothing like Spaghetti-O's straight out of the can on Christmas while everyone else is opening presents. Hey, at least the local television station had a Christmas movie marathon. _It's a Wonderful Life,_ my favorite."

Something that might be pity passes over Sammy's face. "Sorry man, that sucks."

"I got over it. But I'm telling you so that you understand that Agent McGee—" I jerk my head back towards Tim and Ken "—is the closest thing I've ever had to a brother."

Sammy's hold on my arm loosens. "I swear that I didn't mean to hurt him."

"You can't change what happened, but you can fix the future." When he looks like he isn't convinced yet, I move on: "Look, I told you one of my secrets. Your turn. Tell me what happened to Merilee."

Licking his lips, he glances to Ken as though to make sure he's still busy with Tim. Sammy sighs quietly and then, he hangs his head. "I don't remember much about her from when I was little. When I was six, she left the house and joined the Navy. She was a perfectionist, always having to be the best of the best."

"A regular AJ Squared-Away, huh?"

When he nods, I'm shocked that he knows what the phrase means. "She used to send us these post cards from all over the world and when I grew up, I wanted to be just like her."

"Why didn't you?"

He half-shrugs. "I was about to enlist when she came home one day, drunk off her ass. It was so out of character for her. My parents didn't know what to do with her because all she did was drink and sit in her room in the dark. Eventually, they sent her to a rehab center. But – " his eyes begin to turn glassy " - Merilee didn't come home after that."

I tilt my head. "Where is she now?"

"Dead."

"I'm sorry." When I pause, he only half-shrugs again. "Do you know what happened?"

His face twists in anger. "Yeah, my sister checked herself out of rehab so she could jump off a bridge in the middle of nowhere. We didn't hear about it until someone contacted us about our missing person's report. Three months later and after she'd been buried in a pauper's grave."

I suck in a breath. "Wow, that's – "

"It's like you just said, 'you can't change the past, but you can change the future'."

My blood turns cold. "What do you mean?"

"My brothers and I found out a few months ago that she killed herself because she was raped during one of her deployments. Some guy named Lake."

"So you took care of it?"

His lips twitch into a sad smile as he glances back at Ken. "Not me and not Charlene."

As I swallow hard, my eyes follow his back to Tim and Ken. While Ken duct tapes a towel to the back of Tim's leg, my heart lodges itself in my throat. The person patching my partner up might be responsible for last night's heinous crime scene.

"You need to get Agent McGee out of here," I whisper, "before he gets any worse. I can help you get your sister out of custody, if you do that. Do we have a deal?"

For a moment, Sammy looks as though he might cave.

"No deal," someone behind us says. "Get the fed over there with the other one, Sammy."

When Greg carries a bucket past us to Ken and Tim, Sammy drags me over too. One swift kick to the back of my knees drops me to the ground. I move to Tim's side. In the patch of light filtering through the wall, his face looks paler than it did in the woods. His hair is matted and soaked from the sweat pouring down his face.

"Is he alive?" Greg asks.

"For now. His pulse is weak, but hey, he's still got one," Ken says, but I don't find it comforting at all. "Did you bring the stuff from the house?"

Making a face, Greg pulls out a bottle of water and container of aspirin. "I don't see the point anyway. Who the hell cares if it hurts?"

"Because pain could make him get worse faster. And if he kicks it, we can't exactly trade him for Charlene, remember?"

He rolls his eyes. "Whatever."

At that moment, a cell phone's ring echoes from the bucket. Growling, Greg pulls it out.

Sammy's brow furrows. "Why'd you bring that?"

"Both of them keep going off," Greg says, "like every fucking minute. I figured if one of them doesn't answer soon their fed friends will be crawling all over here in no time."

"I guess now is as good a time as any to notify their agency." Ken nods like he tries to convince himself it makes sense before staring at me poignantly. "You answer the phone and don't say anything about your partner, got it? Then I'll tell them what we want in exchange for you two."

I press my lips together, pretending to play difficult. In reality, I want to answer that phone more than I want to take my next breath.

"The only way you two get out of here is when Charlene comes home. So if you want your partner to live, you better play ball."

"Okay," I say.

Greg holds the phone out. "Answer it."

I look at him like he's crazy. "Should I tell my boss how hospitable you three are being?"

He backhands me for that one, just as the phone cuts out. A second later, the ringing starts up again. Rolling his eyes, Greg places the phone against my ear and holds a gun in my face.

 _"McGee?"_ Gibbs' voice comes over, loud and clear and rattled.

I take a steadying breath. "Boss, it's me."

 _"What's going on, DiNozzo? Why aren't either of you answering?"_

"We met a bunch of guys and we're having a party right now." I glance up at my new friends. "A big one."

 _"And McGee?"_

"He's hit, boss. It isn't good."

The line goes quiet for a heartbeat and I hear a honk and the squeal of tires on the other end right before Greg yanks the phone away. He smacks me upside the head and I groan.

Greg jerks the phone away. "That's enough. Listen up, fed…no, no, you listen to me. If you want your agents back alive, you'll hand over Charlene Moser. You've got one hour to make the arrangements. We'll make contact in one hour." When he ends the call, he turns to his brothers. "Now what, Kenneth?"

Ken's jaw snaps closed. "We, uh – um…they're going to be coming straight here. We need to get out of here. Now!"


	7. Chapter 7

**Disclaimer :** I own nothing, but the typos.

 **Warnings : Rated T for language.**

 **Author's Note :** _Time seems to be a precious commodity today. Barely able to sneak this in during my time zone. Thanks to everyone who's read, favorited, and followed so far. Thank you so, so much to everyone who reviewed. I'm sorry I didn't get a chance to send you each a note.  
_

 _Settle in. We've got another long chapter today._

 ** _-oooooooo-ooooooooo-ooooooooo-_**

Without so much as a glance back at Tim and me, the brothers dart out of the barn to make their preparations for our move. They slide the door closed behind them, its rickety hinges screaming bloody murder as the entire space falls into near darkness.

Closing my eyes, I wait for minute and then, I force myself to stretch it to two. Even though my body is begging for action, I need to ensure that Tim and I are truly alone. If one of the brothers catches us sneaking to the Charger, they'll probably kill us.

As soon as I'm sure no one stayed behind, I scramble to my feet. I grab the bucket from Tim's side and sneak towards the entrance. Someone patrols outside; his shadow breaks up the light that filters through the slotted wood. The figure sneaks back and forth like a solider on guard duty.

Gripping the bucket handle so tightly my knuckles ache, I desperately scrabble for a plan: brain the guy outside, steal his gun, sneak Tim to the car, and hightail it out of Hicks-ville.

That should be easy enough, right?

Yeah right, I think Tom Cruise in _Mission: Impossible_ might've had the easier job.

But nonetheless, I press my back against the barn door. There's a gap at the end, just big enough for me to slither through when I need to. From there, I watch the world outside. It looks like Greg—or Ken?—was the one chosen to stay behind. In his hands, a shotgun is poised for action.

I hold my breath as he drifts closer. I lift the bucket, wait for the opportune moment.

At the perfect time, Tim gives a loud, mournful gasp. His breathing goes ragged before it morphs into a harsh moan.

Greg spins around on high-alert, his head whipping towards the barn.

"Shit," I mutter.

When his footsteps draw closer, I retreat back to Tim's side. Even though he's barely awake, my partner tries to push himself up. I squeeze his shoulder, and his unfocused eyes flutter open.

"Relax, Tim," I say. "Just relax."

"T-Tony? Are we…are we still…" His voice trails off into a hiss.

"Yeah, we're still playing on the Little House on the Prairie, but Gibbs knows about everything." I force the bravest grin I can manage. "Everything's going to be fine, Tim."

He sinks against the hay. "Thanks."

I blink. "For what?"

"Lying to make me feel better." He pulls a shuddering breath, braces himself as he shifts his weight. "If they called Gibbs, you and I both know they're just going to move us."

"He'll get here before that."

Tim's tiny smile humors us both. Just as I'm about to match it, he groans again and reaches for his the back of his leg. With the towel and duct tape, it looks like something out of low-budget mummy movie.

"What the hell is that?" he asks.

"That's what happens at the hillbilly doctor. If you'd listened to country music with me, you would've known all about it," I shoot back.

He tries to laugh, but it comes out as a yelp. That's when I notice the bottle of Advil and water by his side. After sliding over to retrieve it, I hold it up into his view.

"Why don't we try a couple of these?" I suggest.

Tim stares back with hooded eyes. "I don't think it's going to help."

"It's better than nothing, isn't it?"

He half nods while I struggle to remove the lid with my bound hands. After several failed attempts, it pops off and vanishes into the hay pile. I rub my sore thumb before I shake out four pills into Tim's trembling hand. Only three of them make it into his mouth, but he swallows then before I even pick up the water bottle. I open it with my teeth and spit the cap onto the floor. When I offer it to him, Tim looks at me like I might be trying to poison him.

"Don't worry, McGee, I've had all my shots."

"You don't know if they put something in there."

I shrug. "Right now, you should take your chances."

He takes the bottle of water from my hand, but his grip is so shaky that the liquid sloshes all over the floor. I grab it from him, ease it to his mouth. He takes a few deep sips until the bottle is nearly empty. Then I place it on the floor by my knees.

"You should drink something, Tony," he says quietly.

I shake my head. "I'm fine."

"So you get to play DiDoctor, but not follow your own advice?" He huffs. "Typical."

I laugh. "You know the name game only works if it makes sense, McPatient?"

As he sinks back against the hay, obviously spent, I take a half-sip of water to appease him. When he slumps further down in the hay, Tim manages to land in a patch of sunlight. I notice a slight color returning to his cheeks, but rivers of sweat roll off down his face.

I place my hand on his forehead. His skin is on fire.

"Oh shit, Tim," I whisper.

"I'm feeling better." His tone tells me that he's a big, fat liar. "Say, Tony, could you do me a favor?"

If he asks me to give up McNicknames, I might be worried enough to oblige. For a few days. But the look on his face tells me it's something far more serious than that. My chest tightens at the thought of how he's going to ask me to fulfill some sort of last wish bullshit. Tell my mom I love her, donate all of my money to charity, make sure my friends know I cared, blah…blah…blah.

Speaking of last wishes, I really need to ask him to find a home for my fish.

I lick my lips, feign nonchalance. "As long as it doesn't involve rebooting your computer, I'll see what I can do."

The silence lingers for a long time as Tim's breathing grows more ragged. He goes slack, but I shake his shoulder until his eyes flutter open. If he's lost as much blood as I think, it's only a matter of time before he goes into shock. I have to keep him awake and talking, no matter how morbid or depressing the subject might be.

He stares up at me. "Tell Gibbs that I enjoyed working with him. Tell my dad that I'm sorry that I didn't live up to the family name. And tell Sarah, I'm sure she'll be…" he coughs again, hard enough to rattle his bones "…a better writer than I ever was. And Delilah…" He draws her name into a regretful sigh. "Tell her I never should've let her move halfway around the world."

I nod. "And if I don't make it, tell my dad that I never hated him and Gibbs that those headslaps caused permanent brain damage. And my fish have expensive tastes. So make sure you feed Kate and Ziva the best food money can buy. Nothing is too good for my girls. "

Tim genuinely laughs. "What about Zoe?

Something that feels a lot like regret wells in my chest. "I've been head over heels in love with her since Philly, but I never knew how to tell her."

Tim smiles knowingly. He goes to tap my shoulder, but misses by a mile. "You were one hell of a teacher, Tony. Thanks for everything…even the tough love."

"Are you planning on dying on me, McGee?" When he weakly shakes his head, I add: "Then save all of this last word crap for when it's actually over. I haven't heard the fat lady sing yet, so I think we're safe. For now."

He tries to laugh again, but it comes out as a gasp.

"I think we should plan for something when we get out of here."

He tries to slip away. "A movie…night…like we…used to?"

"How about a double date with our ladies?" I shake his arm. "When Delilah comes home to visit. Or we could always go to Dubai. Did you hear they have an indoor ski resort over there?"

"Yeah…I think…that sounds nice. As long as Zoe…promises not to…" The last dredges of consciousness begin to fade from his eyes.

"Beat you to a pulp again," I say. "I know."

He half-laughs as he passes out. Pressing my lips together, I grab his shoulder. Underneath my fingertips, his body trembles like we've been out in the cold for far too long. And while the air in the barn hovers just above freezing and we're still soaking wet, I'm worried there's more to it than that.

I squeeze his arm, but it doesn't wake him up.

So I try something I picked learned from Gibbs in his 'interrogation' techniques class. A sternal rub, I think he called it. Whatever it is, digging your knuckles into someone's sternum is a surefire to wake up anyone who isn't dead.

Making a fist, I press my knuckles against Tim's chest. He bucks against the touch, groaning.

"Come on, Tim, you've got to wake up," I say, pressing just a bit harder.

His eyes open, hands flapping to chase mine away. "To…ny…what..was…that…for?"

"I need you to stay with me. We've got work to do."

"But I'm tired..." He sounds piteous, like a child or a Probie. "There…is…always work. Can't we…" he takes a heaving breath "…just rest for a little? Please…"

His voice breaks my heart, but I push. "Do you want me to tell Gibbs you said that?"

He tries to sit up. "No…no. I'll…I'll…"

"Write my report."

His eyes instantly snap back at me, hazy and pissed. "Bishop…does…both."

Half-nodding, I shrug like he outwitted me. "Okay, fine, but you buy lunch."

"No, you."

Sighing, I hang my head to hide my smile. "Fine, fine, I'll buy lunch and convince Bishop to write our reports. But if you fall asleep again, the bet's off, got it? Then you'll probably have to write hers too."

Aggravation chases the agony off his face for a split second. I breathe a sigh of relief at the glimpse of my determined and ready partner. Pushing himself higher in the hay, he glances towards the door.

"What…should…I do?"

"Be ready to run." He stares at me like I just told him Gibbs invited us to a tea party. "Be awake so I can help you get out of here?"

Once he sits up completely, the little color in his cheeks drains away. He pitches to the side, but he manages to stay upright. I hold my bound hands up, begging him to stay there, stay with me, as I scramble to my feet. I sneak across the barn, grab the bucket from where I left it. When I check on Tim, he gives me the weakest thumbs up I've ever seen.

So I glance out the door, just in time to see the shotgun aimed at my chest.

The bucket lands on the ground, rolling away with a loud _plunk._ Hands raised, I backpedal into the barn.

"Tony?" Tim calls.

I don't get a chance to reply because the brothers sweep in after me. Greg keeps his shotgun pointed at his heart while Ken and Sammy stand by his side.

"Sammy, go help Agent McGee," Ken says. "I don't think he'll be able to manage on his own."

At least Sammy has the grace to look at the floor on his way past. When he pulls Tim to his feet, my partner yelps loudly. I take a reflexive step forward, but Greg slides into my path and presses the shotgun against my chest. I don't move again.

By the time Sammy and Tim join us, my partner is ghastly white and panting with effort. Guilt reads heavy on Sammy's face and he makes no attempt to hide it.

"I'm sorry," he whispers.

"Apologies are a sign of weakness," Tim retorts, more vitriolic than I thought him capable of.

Greg moves the gun away from my chest, takes a step towards Tim. But he doesn't make it because I jump forward to smash my elbow against his nose. Something cracks underneath my strike. Greg and his shotgun topple to the ground.

When I scramble for the weapon, Ken steps on the barrel. "That's a bad idea, Agent DiNozzo."

He points to the opposite side of the barn where Sammy holds a gun against Tim's temple. Even though the look on Tim's face implores me onward, I hold my hands up and step back. Our last escape attempt slips away as Ken picks up the shotgun.

Climbing to his feet, Greg keeps one hand presses against his nose. Blood flows freely down his cheeks and I feel oddly triumphant.

Until he sucker-punches me in the jaw.

I tumble to my knees and use my hands to brace myself against the ground. Stars dance in my vision, right before pain bursts across my face. I close my eyes, feeling myself start to drift away.

Stay awake, I tell myself. Just stay awake.

"Tony," Tim says.

The sound of his voice snaps me out of my stupor and I push my body up, just in time for Greg to kick me in the gut. I collapse back to the ground, gasping for air. Out of the corner of my eye, I see him wind up for another hit. I brace myself.

"I think you're done, Greg," Ken snaps.

"Why do you always get to boss me around, Kenneth?" Greg huffs, voice bordering dangerously near a whine.

"Because I'm older and Mother said that you have to listen to me, that's why." When his brother gives him the death stare, Ken rolls his eyes. "Look, let's just get them in the car so we can take them to the rendez-vous point. I'll catch up in a few minutes."

There's another huff before I'm pulled to my feet. Even though my legs are wobbly, I put on a brave face when I glance over at Tim. I shoot him a broad smile like I planned this all along and I know exactly what the fuck I'm doing. But the truth is that I'm scared shitless.

We're out of options and time. So we have no choice but to see how this plays out.

Greg shoves me forward and I stumble out of the barn. Outside, the sun is blinding. It dips closer to the tree line and I realize it's far later in the day than I originally thought. When I don't keep moving, Greg grabs my upper arm and forces me forward. Behind us, Tim leans against Sammy as we're escorted to G-d knows where.

"So our agency decided we are worth trading for?" I ask.

"Not the agency, but your boss did," Greg says. "He was a bigger softie than you lead us to believe."

For a moment, I wonder whether they called the right number because that sure as hell doesn't sound like Gibbs.

"He offered us whatever we wanted. Our sister's freedom, getaway car, and cash. Lots of cash." His smile is predatory as he grips the back of my neck, hard. I guess he doesn't know bad guys only get the loot in movies. Real life ends in prison or a body bag.

"If I'd known one of you were so valuable," he continues, "I'd have done something like this sooner."

We head around the back of the house to reach a black cargo van. Ken is already busy loading the assault rifles from upstairs into the back of the vehicle.

"Getting ready for that party, huh?" I ask.

Greg nods. "Yeah, you could call it that. We're planning a little celebration at Merliee's base. The bastards never took us seriously after she died, but now, they'll see we're as serious as a heart attack."

He says it so easily, so conversationally, that I instantly realize we aren't going to a meet. We're headed somewhere far different, but I can't break the news to Tim.

Holding my breath, I glance back at my partner. Somehow, his face has gone even whiter, his lips completely bloodless and his eyes glazed. But he still wears an expression of determination like he knows that if he passes out again, we're both as good as dead.

And if I fight back now, we are.

Greg gestures to the back of the van. "Get in."

Without protest, I climb into the back of the van and take a seat on the floor. If it weren't for the gun Greg points on me, I would've scrambled for one of the weapons. Seconds later, Tim collapses onto the floor next to me. He lands flat on his back and stops moving. Even though his eyes are closed, his hitched breathing tells me that he's still awake. And in agony.

Greg follows us inside. He slams the door and then perches himself next to the guns.

We sit in heavy silence until the two doors up front open and the other brothers scramble in. Ken fires up the engine and the van bounces down the driveway. For the entire trip, Greg keeps his gun pointed in our direction. Every bump and every pothole makes Tim groan and sends my heart into throat like one wrong jostle could set that gun off again.

During the trip, I keep my leg pressed up against Tim's side, tapping a rhythm to keep him conscious. Occasionally, he gives a slit-eyed glare because I interrupt his nap. None of us speak, but I think he still believes everything will be okay. At least, I hope he does.

After a half hour or so, we take a right off the main road onto a winding, bouncy one. I slide between Greg's gun and Tim, just in case. The last thing my partner needs right now is another bullet.

Eventually, the van slams to a stop.

By my calculations, we should be smack dab in the middle of nowhere.

Oh G-d, they're planning on dumping us here.

Sammy climbs out of the passenger seat and rounds the van to open the back door. His face is grim as he steps aside. Greg tucks his weapon away long enough to undo the cuffs on my wrists.

I stare blankly at my hands, then back up at him.

"This is the part where you two get out," he says, gesturing with his head.

But there's nothing out there except for the dirt road, open sky, and trees. Miles and miles of fucking trees. I bet these bastards are dropping us off in the middle of Shenandoah Park.

I should've seen it coming. Its standard kidnappers 101: drop your hostages off in the middle of nowhere, get to safety, and then call in their location, if you want your hostages to live. If not, you just let nature take its course and hide the bodies.

My mind struggles to come up with a new plan, but Tim and I reached the end of the line.

"Where's our boss?" I ask, already knowing the answer.

"If he plays ball, he'll be here to pick you up soon."

"Take McGee with you." I swallow hard, realizing I'm not above begging at this point. "Please take my partner. He needs a doctor."

Greg's gun in my face doesn't make me move. But when he takes careful aim at Tim, I'm on my knees to help my partner out of the vehicle. I ease Tim to his feet, taking the brunt of his weight as he struggles to keep his head up. Sammy won't look at us when he moves back to the passenger seat.

The back doors slam shut. Then, the van takes a right turn around us before it disappears down the dirt road, kicking up bits of mud on the way. As it snakes through the trees, every hope I had of getting Tim out of this alive evaporates into nothingness.

Tim sways into me. "Tony, what…are…we going to…do?"


	8. Chapter 8

**Disclaimer :** I own nothing, but the typos.

 **Warnings : Rated T for language,  
**

 **Author's Note :** _Thanks to all of the favorites, follows, and reads. You have no idea how much that means to me. Extra thanks for all of the reviews. Your words keep me writing.  
_

 _One more chapter and the epilogue will finish this up._

 _Enjoy._

 _-oooooooo-ooooooooo-ooooooooo-_

The only way out of the woods is on foot, five miles–give or take a bunch–down through the trees back to the main road. For me and Tim, it might as well five hundred.

Tightening my hold on his waist, I urge him forward. He slumps against me, letting me work as a crutch to carry the brunt of his weight. Too bad, it isn't helping. His body still shakes violently from the effort and his breath comes slow and labored. Every time I ask how he's doing, he adamantly says that he's fine, that everything's fine, that the whole fucking world is fine.

But the breaks become more frequent, the limping steps smaller and slower. My nerves shred as the world around us falls into darkness.

We cover less than a mile in an hour and he's fading faster than the daylight. At this rate, we won't make it to the main road before nightfall. Hell, we won't make it at all.

Ominous black clouds snuck over the sun to plunge the day into near darkness and our shadows are swept out from underneath us. Every blast of the wind drives the temperatures below freezing. I inhale deeply, not surprised that the air is heavy with the threat of rain. With our luck today, it'll be sleet or some nasty shit like that. Because that would just fucking perfect.

Tim goes limp against me. I hoist him back up, shake him until his eyes blink open. He raises his head enough to give me a far off look.

"Wha…what?" he asks.

"Hey, McGee," I say, "do you think we'll run into the Blair Witch out here?"

"Of…course. Right after we…find Big Foot."

"I always knew you were a closet believer, McSasquatch." I chuckle. "Speaking of Big Foot, did you ever see _Harry and the Hendersons_?"

"No, but…but, I'm sure you'll tell me…about it. Even though…they don't exist."

If it keeps him awake, I'll do anything at this point, even recite the plot to the _Sex and the City_ movie Zoe made me watch. But I'll never admit how much I enjoyed it. No one should ever find out how thrilled I was to watch Carrie and Mr. Big get hitched. I'm taking that movie MOAS to my grave.

I crack a smile. " 'I'm gonna say this once, gonna say it simple. And I hope to G-d for your sakes you all listen. There are no Abominable Snowmen. There are no Sasquatches. There are no Big Feet.' "

Tim struggles to focus his eyes. "That's exactly what…I…just said."

"I was quoting the movie, McSkeptic." I genuinely laugh despite our situation. "The great Don Amache played Dr. Wallace Wrightwood."

"Oh, okay." He gives a long pause before he says: "Tell me about it?"

"John Lithgow runs a guy over with his car while on a family vacation. Thinking the guy's dead, the family take the body home with them – "

"Wow…that's morbid."

I half-smile. "Well, it turns out that he ran over Big Foot. The whole move is about Big Foot trying to fit in with a modern 80s family and how they interact with each other. It's a great classic comedy about family. Although, I think if we run into Big Foot out here – " I scan the trees for signs of life " – he might not be as well behaved."

"I bet…I bet…he'll get…along with you." Before I have a chance to protest, I catch Tim's cheeky smile that barely hides the panic and pain.

"Yeah, even living in the woods his entire life he probably has still seen more movies than you."

His back stiffens. "Hey, I've seen – "

"No matter how many times you say it, the _Star Wars_ trilogies still don't count. It's like a nerd rite of passage to watch it over a hundred times."

"I was going…to say… _The Breakfast Club_ and…. _Sixteen Candles."_

"Those doesn't count either because everyone's seen them." I tilt my head, pretend to consider his idea. "Even though you can't go wrong with Molly Ringwald, I still prefer Audrey Hepburn."

Tim vehemently shakes his head. "Carrie Fisher."

"What?"

" _Star Wars_ slave…outfit, try…to top…that, Tony."

I press my lips together; I hate to admit that Tim has a point. No matter how much I wrack my addled brain, I can't come up with a better bikini scene than that one. I hiss through my teeth, shake my head.

"Okay, McGee, you win for now. But I'll think of something better eventually."

Tim's glazed eyes wander around the empty road. "We got…nothing but time."

But I think we both know how quickly the minutes tick against us. I glance at his pale face. Some time when I wasn't paying attention, his lips turned a pale blue that blends into the stark grey of his cheeks. Sweat rolls down his chin, dripping onto his shirt, my shoulder, the ground, everywhere.

When he loses his balance again, I catch him and struggle to hold him upright. I feel his legs tremble to hold his weight. His head lolls against my shoulder. Oh Christ, if he's grown too weak to go on….

"Tim?" I shake him until his glassy eyes meet mine. "Come on, buddy, it isn't much further."

His chuckle is quiet, far-off. "That's what…you said before."

"But we're really close to the main road this time."

We still have miles and miles to go and at this pace, we should be there by midnight. His muscles tighten as he tries to put weight on his good leg again, but his knees just buckle. He glances up at me, helpless and exhausted and defeated.

"I can't…Tony. I…I'm slowing us down." His eyes closed momentarily before they flutter back open. "Go ahead and…come back…for me."

My heart tightens in my chest. If I leave him here, we'll come back for his body. A rescue mission will return into a recovery and Ducky doesn't deserve to do an autopsy on another one of us. Kate was more than enough for this lifetime.

"You know I can't do that, Tim."

His eyes flutter open. "Wha...why?"

"Never leave a man behind. What do you think Gibbs will to do if we split up?"

Tim's ever-so slight smile fills me with hope. "Fire us…head-slap us silly."

I grin back. "So we keep going together."

He nods tightly before he tries to stand again.

But suddenly, his eyes roll back in his head and he goes completely slack in my grasp. Unable to hold his weight any longer, I ease him to the ground. Flat on his back, Tim quakes with every breath like each one is a struggle, like it could be his last. Against the blackened and muddied earth, his skin is as pale as porcelain and looks just as breakable.

Swallowing hard, I glance back down the road to where it cuts through the trees. If we stay, he'll die before help finds us. And if I leave him, he'll die before I get back.

Damned if I do and damned if I don't.

Carrying him is our only hope. It's oddly like Obi Wan Kenobi and Tim's beloved Princess Leia, but I'm no sage Jedi and my partner's got nothing on Carrie Fisher.

When I bend his knees up, a tiny gasp breaks through his lips, but he still doesn't move. Gritting my teeth, I slip one arm around his good thigh as I hoist him up with my other hand. After a couple of tries, I manage to sling Tim across my back in a fireman's carry. Even though there are layers of clothes between us, the intense heat radiates off Tim's body in waves. Sweat starts down my back.

My leg muscles scream and protest under the Tim's weight. I take a hesitant step forward, followed by another. It's slow-going, but it's the only chance we have.

"You know, McGee," I say, "I'd tell you that you're coming to the gym with me after this. But I already think you might be sneaking there in your free time."

I cock an eyebrow, half-grin to myself.

"Is that what you've been doing with all that extra energy since Delilah moved to Dubai?"

I wait for a response, but all I get is his soft, even breathing.

Son of a bitch.

A part of me expected him to rouse long enough for a snarky comeback. Maybe I even half-hoped he just pretended to be asleep to hitch a ride back to the main road. Those thoughts are terrible, but I don't want to think about my partner dying in my arms.

All I know is that his condition is bad. Really, really bad. If I had to guess, I would suspect he is in shock due to the amount of blood he lost earlier. But how could I forget about infection, sepsis, hypothermia and all of the other lovely things that could also be killing my friend?

I bite the inside of my cheek hard enough to draw my own blood, rip myself out of my morose thoughts. None of the negativity is doing anything to help Tim. In fact, it only grates on my frayed nerves and gives me the mother of all headaches.

Sighing, I tighten my grip on his arm. I trudge down the road, my legs burning with effort. A knot already develops in the small of my back and my neck screams from Tim's weight.

But I won't put him down until I can't take another step.

To boost our morale, I recite the plots to all three _Star Wars_ movies for Tim's benefit, complete with my own thoughts on George Lucas' directorial work. I don't bother to discuss the prequels because I know how much Tim hates Jar Jar Binx and Meesa thinks he might kill me if he discovers I liked the character.

I wax poetic about the only _Star Trek_ movie I ever saw: _Wrath of Khan._ I point out the plot holes, character issues, and reasons on why it fell short of spectacular. From what I remember of that CafPow-induced nerd rant in Abby's lab, Tim spouted some techno-babble about the scientific inconsistences. I vaguely recall him talking about why protons – or pylons? or photons? or potatoes? – couldn't be turned into torpedoes. I add my thoughts on that too, but I'm pretty sure Tim will correct me when he wakes.

The words keep us company as I trudge further and further down the dirt road. I talk until my voice grows hoarse and my legs feel like they weigh thousands of pounds. The sky grows blacker. The world around us falls into shadows.

But I don't hit the main road.

Just a few more miles to go. Just a few more miles and we'll be safe.

"You know, McGoo, I never thought we'd end up like this." My gaze wanders through the forest. "Not you getting shot by hillbillies and me carrying you back to civilization...well, I didn't exactly expect that either. But I never thought we'd become friends."

I swallow hard, unable to fathom why it's easier to bare my soul to a bunch of random strangers at my men's group meeting and a captor than the closest person I have to a friend. If this is my last chance to be honest with him, I should probably take it.

"When you asked me about my father earlier, I shouldn't have dodged the question." I take a breath. "You have no idea how hard it's been trying to pretend that we have a relationship after all these years. Be thankful that your father cares enough to try to give you your space even though he's dying."

Resentment burns through me before I can stop it. The empty road in front of us stretches on forever. Right now feels like the right moment to say everything I never did to Tim.

"My father isn't anything like yours. Mine showed up long enough to turn my world upside down, screw my neighbor in my own bed, and hit me up for three grand to jet off to Paris. And you know, Tim? I gave him the money so he'd give me a break. The last thing I need is for him to show up in a couple of months to pretend like we're best friends again. Like he can fix everything that's wrong between us."

My feet sink into the ankle deep mud as I plod along. Birds sing somewhere deeper in the forest, lamenting over their choice to stay north for the winter and heralding the coming storm. Overhead, the sky twists into a vicious shade of black as angry clouds race against the waning sun.

"I know I shouldn't have gone through your stuff, Tim. But you didn't make it easy for any of us." Sighing, I hoist my partner higher. "You never talked to anyone about what was going on. You might not believe it, but we always know when something's bothering you. Even Gibbs..." I tilt my head, considering "...especially Gibbs."

Fat specks of sleet begin to fall, slow at first before they pick up in tempo. They splat against my forehead, slither their icy fingers down my neck. Thankfully, they cool Tim's burning skin.

"You wear your heart on your sleeve and I think it's admirable. I learned to bury things years ago. Sometime after my mom died, between the boarding schools and pathetic family holidays, I learned my father didn't really give a shit about what I was up to."

I roll my neck, trying to fight off the crick in it.

"Humor was the only way I learned to cope." Closing my eyes for a moment, I catch a flicker of the pivotal scene from my favorite film. "Oh, and movies, McGee. They were my mom's favorite. We used to watch all those old black and white ones together before she died."

I hadn't intended to turn our trek into a confessional, but it seems apt in case he – we – don't make it. He deserves to know everything I've wanted to say, but never had the courage to. The silence lingers like a third wheel as I trudge along. The sound of Tim's shallow, labored breathing fills my ears, clenches my chest, sends my stomach somersaulting. Time to talk again because there's nothing else I can do.

If he is going to die here, I want him to know that I never left his side.

"Did I tell you that Zoe says I'm about ten years overdue for another disappearing act, Tim?"

I pause for a moment like he could really answer.

"Yeah, I know. I think she's crazy too. It's just…"

Suddenly, Tim shivers so violently that I almost drop him. The sleet lets up a bit, but the sleeves of my suit are chalky and stiff from the ice. I slop through the frozen mud, trying to pick up the pace, but my strength reserves are dissipating as quickly as my hope that help is coming.

"Everywhere else, I got to a point where I knew I wasn't need anymore and I just bounced. I never left NCIS because I never thought I was finished."

I lick my lips, shake the water out of my hair.

"I always suspected you felt the same way too. Then I knew you did after you turned down that promotion to Okinawa. I was surprised because it was the job of a lifetime. Cushy pay, beach life, sushi whenever you wanted. I don't think I ever would've turned something like that down."

Tim's moan is so quiet I barely catch it.

"Okay, okay, so I turned down the team leader position in Rota, but that was different. I don't really like Spanish beaches or tacos." I half-laugh. "Plus, I wasn't really ready."

I let the silence linger for a long time.

"Hell, none of us were," I announce to the world. "You still had so much to learn, Gibbs would've shit a brick, and Ziva, well, who knows what would've happened to her. But…"

Shaking my head, I chase away the thoughts of the teammate who walked out on us. Now isn't the time or place to wallow on what could've been. Instead, I need to focus on getting Tim out of here.

At that moment, my legs give out. I topple down into the mud. Tim lands on top of me, flattening me. Groaning, I slip out from beneath my partner. I ease him onto his back before I tumble back into the slop. I try to force myself up, but I just don't have the strength anymore.

Every muscle in my body pounds with its own heartbeat and I shiver uncontrollably. I lie flat on my back and stare up at the sky as the heavy drops of sleet splat against my face.

It reminds me of a story Ducky told us once about how turkeys will stand in the field and look up whenever it rained. If they were really unlucky, they would drown on dry land.

As the tendrils of unconsciousness stretch after me, I wonder whether Tim and I will drown before we freeze to death. My body shivers violently against the frigid earth that steals my last bits of warmth.

I expect to pass out, but nature isn't that kind. Instead, I sink deeper in the ice-cold mud until I'm nearly buried in my own grave. I listen to the chirp of far-off birds, to Tim's ragged breathing, and to my own slowing heartrate. Underneath it all, I catch the roar of car engine somewhere nearby.

Knowing we were so close to the main road makes me laugh uncontrollably.

Great, Tim and I will end up as that tragic headline about a hiker who found the popsicled bodies of two agents only fifty feet from the main road or something ridiculous like that.

My laughter borders dangerously near a sob.

But the roar grows louder, closer.

I think it might be a hallucination brought about by death's grasp until a car screeches to a halt mere feet away. The driver's side door flings open and I struggle to raise my head, but I don't make it more than a few inches. It's enough for me to see the looming outline of a man against the pitch-dark sky.

"Tony! Tim!" Gibbs' voice comes strident and anxious.

His tone tells me that Tim and I are pretty much fucked. I want to tell him that I'm fine, that we're fine, that I'm sorry for the mess, that I kept my promise. But I don't have the energy.

I almost got Tim to safety. And for now, that needs to be enough.


	9. Chapter 9

**Disclaimer :** I own nothing, but the typos.

 **Warnings : Rated T for language.**

 **Author's Note :** _Thank you for everyone who's read, favorited and followed so far. And thanks again to everyone's reviewed so far.  
_

 _Enjoy!_

 ** _-oooooooo-ooooooooo-ooooooooo-_**

I suspect I might be dreaming when Daniel Craig and Sean Connery join me in a darkened bar for martinis – shaken, not stirred, of course. I know that I am when Queen Elizabeth shows up to tell me I'm a shoe-in for the next James Bond film, one that includes Carrie Fisher as the female lead. I'll take the role on one condition, I tell her, the _Star Wars_ slave outfit better make an appearance.

"Because McGee was so right," I slur. Too many martinis and Bond conversation.

Queen Elizabeth crooks an eyebrow. "Oh yeah, DiNozzo? About what?"

Something sounds wrong this time. She sounds gruffer, annoyed…and a hell of lot like Gibbs.

I shake my head, feeling a pang of regret as Daniel Craig and Sean Connery fade away. I was just about to join the ranks of Bond legends before it slipped through my fingers like sand. Instead of staring at two of Hollywood legends, I end up with a view of a blank, white ceiling.

The room is too bright for me to stand, so I close my eyes and bite back a hiss. The whole place reeks of stale air and disinfectant like no one has bothered to open a window since this place was built. I twist my fingers in the rough sheets and make a face.

G-d, I hate hospitals.

"Glad to see you're finally awake, DiNozzo." That disembodied voice of Gibbs says.

"Boss? That you?"

I force my eyes open, glance to the side of the bed where Gibbs stands at attention. He schools his face into an air of nonchalance, but I notice the flicker of relief in his eyes. A small smile cracks through his otherwise stony façade.

"How are you feeling?" Gibbs asks.

I grin. "Ready and raring to go. Where's McGee?"

Gibbs looks away. "He's fine."

When I push myself up, I ignore the stars exploding in my vision. Gibbs blurs into the carousel of my hospital room, but I still surge to my feet because I need to find my friend, see that he's okay with my own eyes. The world lurches sideways and Gibbs grabs my shoulders, eases me back against the bed. Based on how tightly he grips me, I don't think I'm getting out of here anytime soon.

Or he won't tell me that Tim didn't make it.

Suddenly, my heart races. The bleating of the heart rate monitor announces it to the entire room. So that's what panic sounds like in the medical world. Clinical, cold, beeps and blips like a video game gone wrong.

"Boss." I swallow hard. "Where is McGee?"

Gibbs presses his lips together. "Downstairs in surgery. The doctors are trying to get the bullet out and get his infection under control. He lost a lot of blood."

"But he'll be okay, right?"

My boss looks away. He never was one to lie to me and right now, I hate him for it. "Bishop's supposed to text me as soon as he comes out of surgery."

Gibbs claims the visitor's chair and silence curls around us like a cat settling down for a nap. I don't know how long we sit there, listening to the chirp of the equipment and trying to see who can win this staring contest. Gibbs has a hell of a lot more practice than I do.

Out of nowhere, I picture Ellie in the surgery waiting room, helplessly clutching her phone like a lifeline and waiting to find out whether our partner survived.

I scrub my hand across my face. "You know, Boss, I almost made it to the road. If I just had, maybe – "

"It wouldn't've turned out any different, DiNozzo."

I shrug, not really listening. "How far were we?"

"About a half mile."

I run my tongue along my teeth and chuckle. We were so close and it could've made all the difference between Tim's life and his death.

"I could've made it," I whisper.

"With the hypothermia you had, you were lucky to get as far as you did. You two were five miles from where Sammy Gentry said they'd left you." The way Gibbs says it makes it sound like getting sick could be an excuse, but it really isn't.

"So how'd you get him to crack?" Because my boss would never consider releasing a prisoner to get what he wanted. He has mind games, blank glares, and water torture for that.

"I asked nicely, but it took some convincing to find out Lake's killer."

I cock an eyebrow. "Greg?"

"Kenneth."

I didn't see that coming. Maybe it was some sort of Stockholm Syndrome, but I would've bet my new stapler on Greg. Between the rage issues and anger at playing second banana to his twin, he made the most sense. But hey, when it comes to DNA testing, I'm still right. Ken and Greg are a genetic match. Fingerprints and Sammy's testimony will be what damn him to prison.

"Any idea why?" I ask.

"Lake raped Kenneth's younger sister, Merliee, while she was an ensign. When she complained to her superiors, she was discharged for poor conduct and – "

"She got the Big Chicken Dinner for that?"

Gibbs nods. "Ended up jumping off a bridge at 29 because she couldn't deal with it. Kenneth decided to settle the score."

I think I've heard a story from Ducky about something similar. An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth leaves the whole world blind and in dentures. It's too much body-part roulette if you ask me. I try to put the pieces together, but my brain feels like the world moves slower than usual.

"How does Charlene Moser fit into all this?" I ask.

"Someone needed to lure Lake to the park."

"And it's not like any of the brothers were good-looking enough to pull that off," I say, shooting him a lopsided grin that he returns. "So that's it?"

"Kenneth already confessed to the murder and attempted murder of a federal agent in return for not charging Charlene with obstruction and letting Sammy plead down the kidnapping charges." When I don't respond, Gibbs leans forward. "Something on your mind, DiNozzo?"

I bite my lip and after a long debate, I decide to let Sammy's mistake slide.

"What about the cover-up?" I ask instead.

"Barrows' team will have their hands full as soon as they wrap up the Lake murder. Who knows how high it goes and for how long."

At that moment, Gibbs' phone buzzes. After he pulls it out, he squints at it as though the tiny text is all the device's fault. Despite how many times we tell him that we can change it, he refuses to acknowledge he needs the large print.

Screwing his nose in disgust, he passes it to me. "Left my glasses at the office."

I look at it, but the whole screen is blurry. So I close my left eye, hold the phone up to my right until it comes into focus. The text from Ellie reads simply, _McGee out of surgery._

When I pass the phone back to Gibbs, I start out of bed. The world tilts sideways and I reach for the support of the bedrail. My boss is by my side instantaneously, easing me back into the safety of my scratchy sheets and rock hard mattress.

"Where do ya think you're going, DiNozzo?" he asks.

"To see McGee."

Gibbs squeezes my shoulder. "Later."

"Sure," I say.

Like I intend to keep the promise. Ha.

He stares at me like he might actually believe the lie. Then he nods as though to say, _I'll see you in a little bit_. Without another word, he heads out of the room.

As soon as I'm alone, I reach for the wire connecting to my chest. I rip all three leads off in an impromptu waxing session and I bite back a scream. I'm sure Zoe will make fun of my hairless patches later. The heart rate monitor behind me screams to alert the nurses that I'm dying, so I scramble out of bed. I grab the IV pole and rush out of the room. My bare feet pad along the hospital floor as I escape to the elevator.

I meander past the nurses' station. A pretty, college-aged brunette pops her head up. Catching me in the middle of a jailbreak wipes the broad smile right off her face.

"Sir? You shouldn't be out of bed," she says.

Ignoring her, I pick up the pace. I elbow my way between two men as I get onto the elevator. They double-take between me and the nurse, wide-eyed like they aren't sure what do to.

"Stop that patient!" she yells.

While I slam the door close button like my life depends on it, I shrug nonchalantly. "Women. Can't live with them, can't outrun them either."

They both smile knowingly as the door closes. I squint at the floor numbers while one of the men launches into a tirade about his wife and her never-ending chore list. After I pick the second floor—surgical recovery—I half-listen to the men compare notes on their honey-do-lists and thank my lucky stars that I hired a cleaning lady.

When the doors slither open, I leave the men behind and sneak into the hallway. Thankfully, all of the medical personnel are too involved into their own worlds to notice me. I move through the hallway, finding every snag and bump in the uneven floor with my IV pole.

I pop my head into each room I pass. Fat man. Old lady. Fat lady. Fat, old lady. Little kid with a broken leg. Young woman holding twins.

By the time I find Tim's at the end of the hallway, my heart races and my vision blurs.

But seeing my partner propped up in his bed fills me with an odd sense of relief. Even though he's paler than his sheets and hooked up to more machines than I was, the steady chirp of the heart rate monitor attests to him still being alive.

Ellie and Gibbs linger by his side. Concern weighs heavy on her features like she can barely shoulder the burden of the sudden promotion with us incapacitated while Gibbs struggles to stay unreadable.

Down the hallway, the nurse from upstairs comes around the corner hell for leather. Her angry eyes scan the area before she darts into the closest room.

I finally duck inside Tim's room.

Gibbs turns. "DiNozzo, what the hell are you doing out of bed?"

"Checking up on McGee, boss," I say.

"Tony – " Ellie smiles through her tears " - you're okay. We were so worried."

I stare at Tim for a long moment. "Me too."

When I take another step forward, my body suddenly weighs thousands of pounds. The world tilt sideways. Gibbs and Ellie head over to catch me, lead me to the open chair. I collapse against it, fight the wave of nausea and lightheadedness. My eyes close on their own, but I force them open.

"How are you feeling?" Ellie sounds like she's a world away.

"Fine," I say. "Just peachy."

"You look – "

"Like…crap," Tim says, voice barely a whisper.

Hope swells within my chest and I can't help but grin. His eyes barely open to slits before they close again. Leaning forward, I reach for my partner's hand and squeeze it hard enough to rouse him.

"You don't look too hot yourself, McGoo," I say.

His eyes flutter open. "I…got…shot. What's your…excuse?"

"You."

He gives me a tight smile like he understands everything that single word entails. "Thank…you, Tony. For every…thing." His gaze jumps to Gibbs and Ellie, but it hardly registers either of them. "Nice to see…you, Boss…Bishop. Thanks…for coming."

Gibbs nods, the job done and everyone safe, while Ellie steps forward to clutch Tim's forearm.

"You two gave us quite the scare, McGee," she whispers, smiling, "but the doctor says you and Tony are going to be just fine. Just fine."

His eyebrows jump. "You make it sound bad. How bad…is it?"

She squeezes his arm. "You'll live."

"That's what…Tony said." He huffs quietly. "What…about the…bullet? Can I…"

Her face falls when she looks to Gibbs for guidance, but he just laughs. "Abby already called dibs, Elf Lord. You could always fight her for it."

"Let her…" His voice trails off as he falls asleep. When his hand goes slack underneath my fingertips, I'm thankful that everything's going to be okay, that we're going to be okay.

I lean back in my chair and listen to Ellie drone on about our conditions: dehydration and exposure for me and a quad injury with nicked artery for Tim. Recovery for me should be a couple of days, she says. Rest and fluids will fix everything that's wrong with me. I feel like I'm getting off easy, especially when she tells me how Tim is in for, at best, a few months of physiotherapy and desk duty. The worst case scenario is permanent damage and the end of a promising career.

That's all I can think about as I drift to sleep.

 ** _-oooooooo-ooooooooo-ooooooooo-_**

The upstairs nurse must've been a prison warden in a past life because she tries to lock me in my hospital room and throw away the key. She doesn't take my request to share my cell with Tim seriously until I threaten to sign myself out AMA. Even though I just plan to camp out by his bedside, I don't tell her that. Thankfully, she believes that threat because within the hour, they kick out Tim's roommate and I find myself settling down in the bed next to his.

One day and a couple of blood transfusions—I think, because everything moves so slow in hospital time—make a world of difference for Tim. Sitting up in his bed, he works at his disgusting hospital meal. He chases something that might've been a carrot around his plate with a spork. I ate the same meal an hour ago, but I still have no idea what the hell it was.

Some of the natural color returned to Tim's cheeks and he no longer looks like the next person in line to visit Ducky. His left leg, an intricate mess of bandages and hospital tape, is braced and elevated.

When he tries to stab his vegetable with the spork, it hops onto the floor and disappears under my bed. I wonder how long it'll take for the cleaning crew to find it.

Tim lets out a broken sigh. "I can't believe this."

"It's for the best, McGee," I say. "The food was awful anyway."

He looks at me strangely. "What?"

I point to the floor. "Dinner? It sucked. I can't wait to get out of here and get some real food. I could eat a whole pepperoni pizza right now."

"Oh yeah, you mean the cauliflower."

Ah, so that wasn't a carrot boiled to death and resurrected only to be cooked to death again.

His eyes wander back to the TV in the corner that silently plays _Casablanca._ He muted it because I spent the first hour of the film quoting some of the dialogue, but he doesn't know I've memorized every line. I don't have to hear anyone speak to know exactly what they're going to say. Play it again, Sam.

The stricken expression on Tim's face drags me out of my movie stupor.

"If it isn't the food, what is it?" I ask.

"My leg." He says the words as though could be funny, like the universe plays one big joke on him or yesterday was just a really bad dream. "The doctors said…I might never walk the…same…again."

I press my lips together. "You and I both know it's still too early to tell, Tim."

He hangs his head. "Yeah, I know. We won't find out until I start healing and physical therapy. But, Tony, my life as a field agent might be over. Gibbs might…"

"You really think the boss will get rid of you?" The way he won't meet my gaze speaks volumes. "It wouldn't be like that, Tim. You'll see."

"If I can't walk, I'm no good to the team." He sighs like the world is falling apart.

"I think you're jumping the gun here, McGee. Just wait and see what happens before you start planning your life after the team. Who knows, you might even end up as the head of Cybercrimes." His broken moan makes me move on…quickly. "I'm sure Gibbs'll have more than enough computer work while you're on desk duty. And after that, we'll take it one day at a time."

He nods slowly.

"Time heals all wounds, remember?" I say.

He scrubs his hands over his face. "Why does everyone always say that?"

I shrug. "Because it's true."

"Really?"

I waggle my eyebrows, channel my best _Shrek_ impression. "Really, really."

Rolling his eyes, Tim laughs. For a moment, the companionable silence settles around us and it feels like we're back in the bullpen, hunkering down to pull another all-nighter. I don't know how many more times like this we'll have to share, but I sit back to relish this moment.

When Casablanca ends, he channel-surfs through the hospital's limited–and depressing–offering. After a couple complete scans, he finds a scene that I instantly recognize. Two blondes, a redhead, and a brunette in a diner, talking over breakfast.

"Wait," I say, without thinking. "I love this movie."

Tim drops the remote like it's on fire.

"Wait, you like _Sex and the City_?" His eyes nearly bug out of his head. I feel the blush start on my neck before it engulfs my face. "Since when does a self-proclaimed movie buff like _Sex and the City?"_

I sweep imaginary lint off my hospital gown. "Since his girlfriend makes him watch it all the time."

Tim nods disbelievingly. "Sure."

"It's true. She forced me to watch all six seasons…and the movies." I lick my lips, glance over at the flower print on the wall that hasn't had color since the 1970s. "I told you Zoe would spill my deepest, darkest secret and the one she knows is that I actually kind of enjoyed the show."

I don't expect him to nod. "Yeah, I know. Delilah made me watch it too."

We sit in silence for a long time, two manly men watching a show about life and love from a women's perspective. Research, I tell myself. I'm doing research in case things don't work out with Zoe. But the episode that's on is a great one: when Carrie gets dumped by a Post-It note. I'm not sure what all the fuss is about because who hasn't done that at least once? Okay, fine, twice.

Well, I bet Tim probably hasn't. I doubt he'd have the balls to dump someone with a Post-It note. Scratch that, he probably wouldn't have the heart to dump anyone at all.

"You know," I blurt out, "I always thought you were like Charlotte."

"What? I'm definitely more like Miranda." When I shake my head, Tim looks slightly offended. "Yeah, well, you're exactly like Samantha."

Running my hand across my chin, I consider his thought. Kim Cattrall: sex vixen, killer body, great sense of humor, and wicked fashion sense. Not a bad choice, Tim, not bad at all.

I nod heartily and grin. "That I can live with. Now, what about Bishop?"

He crumples his nose. "No contest," and we unison: "Carrie."

"Oh yeah, definitely." I shoot him a glance. "What do you think about Gibbs?"

"What about me?" Gibbs' voice carries from the hallway.

Tim's wide eyes meet mine. His mouth moves like he's about to say something, but I recover first.

"McGee, change the channel," I yelp.

When he scrambles for the remote, he accidently throws it to the floor. The damned thing explodes into a million pieces and the batteries roll under my bed to have a party with the bit of carrotiflower. Yanking my blanket up to my neck, I lean back against the bed to feign sleep.

"Oh no, you don't, DiNozzo," Tim says as a piece of carrot/cauliflower pings off my head.

Coffee cup in hand, Gibbs materializes in the doorway. His eyes widen at the television as I dive under the blanket.

"What in the _hell_ are you two watching?"

 ** _-oooooooo-ooooooooo-ooooooooo-_**

 **Author's Note 2.0 :** _Well, that wraps up the main story. Epilogue will be posted tomorrow!  
_


	10. Epilogue

**Disclaimer :** I own nothing, but the typos.

 **Warnings : Rated T for language.**

 **Author's Note :** _Thanks to all the readers, favorites, and followers. Many, many thanks to those who have left reviews._

 _Epilogue is up today. Make sure read the last chapter. FF didn't bump the story after I posted yesterday, so make sure you've read chapter 9._

 _Enjoy. Mostly fluff and friendship here._

 ** _-oooooooo-ooooooooo-ooooooooo-_**

The day Delilah Fielding comes to visit is the day that the elevator in Tim's building breaks down. I spent the better part of two weeks here and the one time I actually need it to work, it doesn't.

Son of a bitch.

The enthusiastic grin melts away from Delilah's face when I smash the call button for the sixth time. Just to make sure the 'Out of Order' sign isn't a freaking mistake. She joins Zoe at the base of the stairs. Her fingers delicately rub the balding treads of her wheelchair's tires. For Delilah, the four flights might as well be Mount Everest.

Sighing, I hug the bags of Chinese food and DVDs tighter to my chest. The heat from two orders of General Tso's chicken, Zoe's Sweet and Sour Shrimp, and my Moo Shoo Pork eases the lingering chill from the frigid, slushy November weather outside. When I reach Delilah and Zoe, they stare at each other like they communicate with some sort of chick ESP.

"Maybe I should just call him," Delilah offers. "We could go out to dinner. It would be nice."

Zoe shoots her a tight smile. "But wouldn't that ruin the surprise?"

Delilah shrugs. "It's not like I'm getting up there."

When she lets out a heartbroken sigh, I elbow her shoulder. She didn't just travel thousands of miles, duck Tim's calls for two days, and pick out his dinner—even though I already know what he would've ordered—to let four measly flights of stairs stop her.

"Never say never, Wheels," I interject. "Are we really going to let something like this get in our way?"

"You're right, Tony." That excited grin returns, full-force. "What's the plan?"

"We take the stairs." When her expression turns panicked, I add: "Together. It's all about teamwork, remember?"

Before she has a chance to ask, I dump the bag of DVDs into Delilah's lap and pass the food to Zoe. Despite her confused expression, Zoe doesn't ask any questions. I grab the handles of Delilah's wheelchair. She doesn't roll it out of my grasp like she usually does whenever someone touches it. I move her backwards until we're at the bottom of the first step.

I climb up the first one, brace her chair against it. "Are you ready?"

She shoots me a thumbs up. "Go for it."

"Hold on tight."

I maneuver her and the wheelchair up the stairs, one at a time. Zoe lurks in front of her like a cheerleading spotter, just in case Delilah topples out of the seat. Each thump of the step bounces through the chair, rocking her around like a ragdoll, but she doesn't even hold on to the handles.

Instead, she digs through my movie selection. "So what'd you bring for us to watch, Tony?"

"Some...Bond movies," I pant. "And…"

She holds up one container. " _Harry and the Hendersons._ What's that about?"

"John Lithgow and – "

"Oh!" Zoe's face lights up. "Is that the one where he's an alien and he's sent here with a team to study Earth life? I think William Shatner was in it."

"I love that movie," Delilah says.

"Uh, no." I pause long enough to stare them both down. "You're both thinking of _Third Rock from the Sun._ That was a television show. This _film_ is about John Lithgow and Bigfoot. It starred Don Ameche, Melinda Dillon, and a bunch of other popular 1980s actors. How could you mess that up, Zoe? I thought I taught you better than that."

If looks could kill, Gibbs and Ellie would have a pretty horrific scene to clear on Tim's stairs.

Zoe scrunches her nose. "Why would anyone want to watch a movie about Bigfoot?"

"Well, Tim and I talked about it during…" I let my voice trail off.

Delilah and Zoe stay silent and I cringe inwardly. Of course, no one particularly wants to discuss the day Tim damn near died. The awkward silence sneaks between us as I maneuver Delilah and the chair upstairs. By the time we hit the second floor landing, I'm sweating through my shirt and the whole stairwell reeks like cheap, greasy Chinese food. Good G-d, am I starving.

Somewhere between the third and fourth floor, Delilah's phone buzzes.

After pulling it out of her purse, she holds it up. "It's Tim. What should I do?"

"Doesn't he know it's the middle of the night?" I ask.

She checks her watch. "It's a little after three. He's probably calling to say good morning."

I blink. "Why would anyone get up that early?"

"I spend an hour at the gym, catch up with Tim, and head into the office by six."

Zoe makes a face. "And I can barely get into the office for my 9AM briefing. It takes forever to get out of bed, but I could go all night."

"You usually do," I say without thinking.

She shoots me another lethal look while Delilah cracks up. I drop my eyes to the back of the wheelchair and try to savor my last moments of life. As soon as Delilah and the food are safe, Zoe will probably chuck me down the stairs without a second thought. Then she, Tim, and Delilah will feast on my dime while the building's super scrubs my blood off the linoleum.

Moment later, Delilah's phone buzzes again. When she checks it, she sighs like a schoolgirl head over heels in love with the boy of the month. The chair rocks sideways and I tighten my grip.

"What's that all about?" Zoe asks.

Delilah perks up. "What do you mean?"

"You can't make that sort of noise and not tell us what it's about." It's an order, hidden in the guise of a request.

"Tim just texted me."

Zoe cocks an eyebrow. "And?"

"It says, 'I couldn't end today without telling you how much I love you.'"

And then…my girlfriend sighs too. "I never would've pegged Tim as such a romantic."

I bark a laugh. "Yeah, it's kind of…" Stupid? Sickening? Pointl -

"Wonderful," Zoe says.

"Wha – " I blink "- what?"

"I think it's sweet," she replies while shooting me yet another look.

For the love of G-d, why do women—even strong, practical, no-nonsense women like Zoe—go ga-ga over that sort of bullshit?

Note to self: send Zoe some cheesy, passionate texts to get myself out of the doghouse I'm in for whatever it was I was supposed to do. And didn't? Or did do when I wasn't supposed to. For shit's sake, I have no freaking clue anymore.

I jerk Delilah's wheelchair up to the fourth floor. I never thought I'd be more excited to have another guy encroach on a group of girls than right now. In fact, I might just let Tim have them while I escape somewhere way more masculine like a sports bar or Gibbs' basement.

As soon as she's steady on the landing, Delilah zooms towards Tim's apartment, leaving Zoe and I to eat her dust. With her fingers drumming on the tires, she half-waits for us to catch up. But excitement gets the better of her. We haven't even made it three steps before she pounds on the door.

Grabbing Zoe's hand, I yank her down the hallway.

She gasps, tightens her grip on the food, but I don't slow down. Just as the door starts to open, we jump into position behind Delilah. I collide with her chair and she gives a little squeak.

I try to school my face into a suave smile, but I'm fairly certain that I might be grinning like an idiot. Zoe squeezes my hand and pulls me closer. Just underneath the scent of Chinese food, I catch her vanilla and patchouli perfume. I bet this is what heaven would smell like if they had a Wok and Roll there.

Moments later, Tim answers the door with crutches jammed underneath his armpits. He slumps on them as though he can't stand to bear weight on his right leg. His hair is mussed, his sweats wrinkled. His heavy-lidded eyes glide over the three of us like he might just be dreaming.

"Hey Tim," Delilah says.

His grin chases away the last bits of sleep, the last traces of his pain meds.

"Delilah." Her name comes like a prayer. "You're really here."

She holds her hands out. "Surprise. Just got in on the last plane."

He stoops as best he can to pull her into a tight hug that stretches on forever. Zoe must feel the romance too because she kisses my cheek, even though she believes in minimizing physical contact in public. At all times.

When Tim straightens up, he stares at us blankly.

I laugh. "Aren't you going to invite us in, McGeek?"

He springs to life, easing himself out of the way. "Oh yeah, come in. The place is a bit of a mess." He rakes his hand across his face. "I wasn't really expecting company…just Tony."

The way he says it with a sense of familiarity like after two weeks I'm just another piece of furniture. Which maybe I am, in a way. Since he got discharged, I've spent more time here than my own place. I brought us dinner, kept him company, played some video games at his pleading, and caught a couple of movies—okay, fine, I admit it, we rewatched _Sex and the City_. The show, not the movies…

Up until last week, he was wheelchair-bound, just like Delilah. So he had the opportunity to experience his home from her point of view. As a result, we've spent a good chunk of our time together brainstorming how to make the space livable. I think if we start with the elevator, the rest of the place should be a piece of cake.

I let my eyes wander around the space. Ever since Tim got rid of those big, industrial shelving units and his books last weekend—some interior decorator with too much money and not enough sense paid us for the privilege to haul them away—it's become completely different.

Now, we are granted to an impended view of his apartment. Somehow, he managed to destroy the place since I left last night. His couch cushions are rumpled, blankets and afghans cascade across the floor like a hurricane blew through here. Pill bottles, chip bags, and an army of water bottles hang out on the coffee table next to a pair of gaming controllers. On the big-screen television, the save file from last night's game flashes like Tim lies in wait to finish kicking my ass. As soon as I figure out how to play, I swear to G-d he's going down.

Tim's cheeks flush as he slumps onto the couch, his eyes hazy from shock and Vicodin. "Wow, Del, I can't believe you're really here."

Delilah nods, half-listening.

By the look on her face, I doubt she had the chance to experience Tim's bachelor living at its best before she jetted off for Dubai. Long distance has the tendency to make one comfortable with their own mess and lets them hide everything right before their significant other visit. And I bet that's what she sees now, the chaotic disorder of dirty dishes and rumpled bedding. Not the tiny pieces of lime green duct tape all over the place that tally our projects for her arrival. Or his own wheelchair parked in the corner.

Part of me wonders whether she'll be able to put with all of Tim's neuroses. G-d knows, she won't be able to medicate him like I did.

"You know," Zoe speaks up, "Delilah, why don't you help me get the food ready?"

When my girlfriend shoots me a look that says, _get Tim's shit cleaned up,_ I decide not to tell her to avoid the kitchen. It's the epicenter of bachelor untidiness where no matter how much we clean it the mysterious stains just reproduce on their own.

Delilah reaches out to give Tim's hand a squeeze. "I'll be right back."

Nodding mutely, he watches our girlfriends head into his kitchen.

"Alright, Tim let's get this cleaned up before the womenfolk come back. Maybe you a clean place will help you get McLucky later." Even though the _and me_ goes unspoken, Tim picks up on it.

He rolls his eyes. "I think that's out of the question for a few more weeks."

I retrieve the half-full trash bag I stored behind the couch before I attack the clutter on the coffee table. "It should only out of the question if you're dead or in the hospital. Uh, well…even there, if you're awake, it should be fair game."

He genuinely laughs as he rescues his pill bottles out of the disaster area. I slide everything else into the bag and stow it behind the couch again. When I start folding his blankets, I stare at him earnestly.

"Did your doctor call you yet, Tim?" I ask.

"Yeah, the test results were better than she expected. She thinks I'll make a full recovery…after a bunch of rest and physical therapy. Speaking of which, I start a new schedule next week…" Never one to admit that he might need help, he lets his voice trail off as his eyes flick to the kitchen.

"Ellie or I already talked about it. We'll drive you. I'll clear it with Gibbs tomorrow." He half-nods, still not meeting my gaze. "So...any idea when you're coming back to work?"

He lets out a broken sigh. "Six weeks at best, but it'll be desk duty for a long time."

I crack another grin. "Hey, at least you're coming back. It'll be great to have you around again. Gibbs kicked another TAD off the team today."

"What the hell happened?"

"The guy bungled evidence collection and could've cost us the case if Abby didn't catch it. How hard is it to preserve the chain of evidence?" Rubbing the back of my neck, I hiss through my teeth. "That kid made Bishop look like she was senior field agent material straight out of FLETC."

"That's not good." Tim gapes. "How many agents is that now?"

I make a show of counting on my fingers. "Five. Six, if you count that guy who wouldn't get off the elevator when he figured out he was working for Gibbs. The director's running out of probies. Pretty soon we'll be importing them from San Diego."

He laughs. "If you can get me a computer, I might be – "

"You're supposed to be taking it easy until you're clear for duty." When he sneers, all I have to offer is a one-shouldered shrug. "Doctor's orders."

"Yeah, I guess I've got a bunch of work to take care of here." He sighs, pointing to a piece of duct tape on the baseboard.

"It'll be a winter of projects for the both of us, McContractor."

He grins. "Thanks, Tony, I appreciate it."

"You're welcome." I conveniently leave out the detail about how I already hired a handyman to come by next week for a quote. "What are friends for?"

"To help put you back together," Delilah says suddenly.

I hadn't even noticed how she and Zoe snuck up on us. After my girlfriend passes me and Tim our plates of Chinese food, I slide it onto the coffee table and head to the front entrance to retrieve my bag of DVDs. I grab _Harry and the Hendersons_ from the top. By the time I return, Delilah has transferred herself to the couch. Zoe returns from her last trip to the kitchen with a bottle of wine.

Tim turns to Delilah. "Are we celebrating that you're visiting?"

"Bigger than that," Zoe says, grinning broadly.

My partner's brow furrows. "Del? What's going on?"

"I was going to save it as a surprise for later, but – " Delilah's grin takes over her face " – I got a re-assigned with my team back to DC. I'm not going back to Dubai. That's why it took me so long to come. I was packing up the apartment."

Tim looks like the world just slid out from underneath him. "You're staying?"

She pulls a keyring out of her pocket. "If the offer still stands."

"Yes! Yes, of course!" The shock slowly gives way to excitement. He hugs her as though he'll never let her go. "Of course, it does. I want you here with me, everyday forever."

At that moment, I feel Zoe by my side again. She weaves her fingers between mine, grasping me like a lifeline. Together, we slip away to give my partner and his girlfriend a few minutes of privacy. But it's harder than I thought in his now, unsubdivided apartment.

We end up in Tim's bathroom, grinning at each other like schoolyard crushes as I lock the door behind us. This is the woman I fell in love ten years ago, but I never had the courage to tell her.

"I can't believe that just happened." Zoe breathes. "Did you know about it?"

"Of course, I did." I waggle my eyebrows. "I know everything."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"And ruin the surprise? You can't keep a secret to save your life. You haven't changed at all since Philly."

Her laugh is intoxicating, just like her scent. It all makes my head spin.

"Well," she says, "you have."

"What do you mean?"

She laughs again, deeper and throatier. "You're stable, established…happy."

"I was stable in Philly."

"I wouldn't classify packing up your apartment on a Tuesday night and heading out to Illinois as stable." When I hold my hands in surrender, she smiles. "But I'm just glad to be with you. For however long we might have."

My chest tightens at the thought that I could lose this again, might not have this chance to be with her, that she could slip through my fingers like she did in Philly when I walked away.

On reflex, my hand reaches into my jacket pocket to feel for the apartment key I made for her when we reconnected. Okay, so I stole Tim's idea, but it really was a damned good one. I never had the courage to tell her back in Philly. And I doubted I would have it here too.

But I guess it took being taken hostage by hillbillies, running for my life, and watching my partner almost bleed to death to make me realize I can't make the mistake of losing her again.

I hold her gaze as I show her the key. I'm not the ring and children kind of guy—unlike Tim who's probably out there dreaming up names for his and Delilah's third daughter. But I can give her this.

Zoe's face softens as she tentatively touches the key. The look in her eyes tells me that she knows this will be the most she ever gets. She inhales sharply.

"Tony, are you sure?"

"I've never been more certain of anything in my life."

 ** _-oooooooo-ooooooooo-ooooooooo-_**

 **Author's Note 2.0 :** _Well, that wraps this one up. I sincerely hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. Don't worry. I'll be back eventually with another story. Until then, catch you all on the flip side._ **  
**

 _48/16/62_


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